The Shore

A tale about a man who suffered an accident and can no longer walk the shores of his childhood.

I remember when the daffodil-tinted sand tickled away at the bottoms of my feet. I remember when I'd look to the golden sky and open my mouth to scream, but the cool turquoise waves did all the screaming for me. I remember when I could walk the flaxen shores, surfboard in hand, eyes gazing at nothing in particular. I remember when I could look towards the silvery horizon and see my future sprawled out right there in front of me. I can also remember the mercilessly gray wall of furious water that moved at me like a ferocious cheetah, hungry for the kill. I never did remember what happened after that, the memory constantly looming over me, a colorless mass of fog. Storming. Always storming. The only memory that remained of that fateful day was one of a sharp, gut wrenching pain that I could feel in the very depths of my spine. Blood. Crimson red. A phoenix, teeth bared, eyes wide and full of ill-disguised remorse. I could feel its warm, labored breathing on my face. In, out. In, out. It bared its fangs, still breathing. In, out. In, out. It pounced, the length of its wings covering the horizon, rendering it dull and lifeless. I opened my mouth to scream once again, but the phoenix did all the screaming for me. It did all the screaming for me.