A Chapter by Nostalgicc

Second part. After 10 months, finally remembered this story. Not edited.


As night fell, his breathe grew coarser and coarser, as if some surreal force was tugging the life out of his lungs, exhausting them of their much needed oxygen. Over the course of a few hours he had gotten nothing done.

He still held certain that he’d landed on some sort of island: where else could he possible be? There were palm trees, an expansive layer of sand, fresh sand, and seagulls. Ahead of him loomed a forest, a tangle of trees and secrets, whatever lay ahead of them. Exploring was out of the question. 

For the first part, he still could not muster the strength to move a muscle- think about moving a muscle. His back against the palm tree, a sensation of being frozen grew over him. He struggled to draw in breathe.

He had kept that position, cradling the tree, for a couple of hours now and it had become something natural, a good feeling. 

When he first came to consciousness, it had been excruciating. The pain that held his bones, his skin, and his muscles in its tight clenched fist, showed no signs of releasing him. For a second he could have imagined that the blood coursing through his system, that blood that had fueled him every day, ignited him every morning to proceed onward in life- that blood had morphed into a thicker substance, and from there had solidified.

Upon the slight movement, this blood cracked and broke causing him to twist and convulse, finding the act of wiggling a finger hell. 

He knew it was impossible, that his own blood was flowing at the same rate and in the same places that it had been doing so forever, since his nascent cries.

The idea, although, was a reasonable explanation and so he went with it. Reasonable was out of its place here. Reasonable would be back in Nantucket, back to the quaint fishing village hanging onto the swarming sea as a child would to his newest object of admiration. That would be reasonable.

Here, unknown location, unknown and slightly preoccupied of his whereabouts, reason was just as valid as visualizing Nantucket in front of him. 

Another hour blew out its candle. 

He still didn’t know his name, but he know knew something: Nantucket. He was from Massachusetts. His name held less importance know, as different yet relevant info was coming back now. His name would come later, that word, that word that identified him to society- word that has now elderly parents had bestowed him with years ago. How many, not precise. Age would come later too. 

Name and age, those factors that counted in the world, the two meaningless things everyone wanted to know. Here, they accounted for nothing. They were worth nothing. They didn’t heal him of his fading pains, they didn’t summon all the information about himself he desperately urged to know, and they didn’t nurture him with food or water. 

Names and age, what ridiculous categorical facts. They started with R’s and they ended with D’s and other than that who really f*****g gave a s**t. 

He shifted next to the tree, giving it his left shoulder, working his muscles and sensing a trivial bolt shoot up his spine. Not dolorous enough to make him wince but packing as much a punch to jolt him an inch. It passed.

His surroundings: black. Except this wasn’t the black of the city or the black of modern civilization, run by electricity, close to being an artificial black, powered by human beliefs, no, not at all: this black was calm, persuasive one that whispered ‘explore me’. It felt charming and soothing, no space hiding from it. He could clearly glimpse the sand, the ocean ahead proclaiming dominance over its territory, an ocean so abysmal that there were thousands of sections humans could not reach, thousands of creatures and species undiscovered, marine life unperturbed by the harsh reality that were humans.

Gentle breaking waves caressed the sand, wetting the granules and retreating to approach again. It was the rhythmic melody of the ocean, who could be tranquil when it wanted to be, yet damaging when it didn’t. 

Pain still withdrawing, his eyelids drooped lower, lower, lower now. His joints and bones, an hour ago tense, yelling, relaxed now and settled themselves as the ocean relaxed its baby island, a mother caring for what she brought to life, and his eyes heavier, heavier.

Name, nantucket, age, were invaluable; but the tune being played out with majestic force by the ocean, it was. 

© 2010 Nostalgicc

Author's Note


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Added on September 11, 2010
Last Updated on September 11, 2010
Tags: sea, night, novel, mystery ocean pain



East coast

Been here since 2007. 20. East Coast. I dig ambient soundscape music and often write while listening to Boards of Canada or Aphex Twin. Don't be afraid to offer serious constructive criticism, .. more..

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