There’s a place in the world. There, in that place, there is a long green. It stretches from the base of a mountain. There are bleached white logs from before man here. They are petrified and solid. The green runs along a stream that glistens in the sun and rain. It pours the stream onto grey and sometimes gold sand. The sand takes it to the ocean. There I stand, in my memory. I smell the salt and the things of the ocean that it has given to the shore. I look at the things. Their armor has been pierced and torn by the birds of the land. I pick through these and rub away the green grow that wraps around them. The wind is gentle and then not. My long greasy hair is blown this way and then that. It settles quickly though. The sun does not shine through the clouds but it gives it a shade of light that only the coast knows. Sometimes then, in my memory, the sky gives me rain even though I do not want it. There are some old things on this sand that man gave it, even though it did not want it. An old white and grey boat, beaten by waves and drug by the tide, hugs the green now. The tide isn’t strong enough to pull it back so the sun and the rain and the wind beat it. They tell the shore to not worry, in time it will be right and things will be the way they were before. But the shore knows it will take too long.
Until that time the birds sit on the crooked bow and look for more ocean armoured creatures to pierce and swallow. They will leave behind the shells.
I think it is probably paradise.
To somebody, somewhere…probably.
Across from here is a town that is built from the mountain straight onto the water. There is a place there I always eat dinner alone. Inside the lights makes it a dimly red. I find my table. It looks over the dock. I am quiet and until the night this place is also quiet. A beautiful waitress whose dreams are still alive and haven’t been given up to man serves me sometimes. I do not come here enough for her to remember me, but I do remember her, just not her name. She looks at me with a vague familiarity. She suspects I am perhaps a visiting fisherman. I smell of it. Though I cleaned before I came, one shower is not enough to wash months of dirt and sweat or the ocean salt completely from my skin. She doesn’t wrinkle her nose and in this time and this moment and this space she is an angel because she brings me food. It is expensive and not cooked right but I don’t mind because I am eating it behind four walls with windows and I am warm.
When I am finished I leave her something and goodbye for now, I say, but it is probably forever because this is not home. As I leave I pull my jacket on, because here even the wind blows from the mountain and its air is cold. I can hear the gentle water as it moves against the wood pylons and the buoys of the boats in the harbour. In time man will give these to the shore too, and the sun and the rain and the wind will make it right again.
The ancient trees line this mountain I walk up. The town has concrete streets that they fight to keep the roots out of. The buildings have green grow on them and some are falling over. The old cars sit in alleys of sporadic trash and abandoned things of men. The people are hardy, they say they are part of this place to me. Their lineage is traced back by a few generations they say. A man who is filling up his car at the gas station promises to show me more things in the morning if I awake. He is old and unafraid of the mountain. Up til now it has protected him from other humans and things that some find scary. The old man has a son and daughter and some grandchildren. They left because they said there wasn’t a future. He sighs, audibly. Not in fishing anyway, all the fish are gone, nearly, he says. Now I see them sometimes when they visit from the city on giant jets. But mostly, he just lives in memories of when the town held promise. He accidently drips some of his fuel onto the ground and kicks it around in the gravel. Smoke bellows out of his exhaust as he leaves. He waves his wrinkled hand out of his rolled down window.
The next morning I stand in the shower for a longer time as I feel the warmth against my skin. The water runs to the drain where it becomes cold. I eat breakfast with my comrades and we speak about the temporary things we are doing and will do. I am full and in time will become hungry again but for now it is enough. We pay and then board a small plane to our place in the world where the mountain meets the green. We land and lay down in our tents. We will sleep until the moon rises above the ocean.
It is night and I stand down at the shore. I have returned for the last time. The tide gently pushes against the worn leather of my boots. It tries to take me away. I would let it, if not for how I am a happy mistake. So I cannot. The animals of the shore take flight and fury away from the cliffs as I approach. A man waits against a rock for me. He holds up a drink we invented long ago to forget our problems of existentialism, but as most things we attempt, our solution only exacerbated our problem. For now, it will do. He hands me one and we sit on the rock. Green grow from the ocean wraps around us and pops under our feet. The moon shines enough light for it to reflect a sphere on the cranes that float on the water. There isn’t much to say so we don’t. My arms and chest are tired from the day. My hair begins to rise with the wind again. Sand and salt are blown into and onto me. He picks up a millennia old rock and throws it into the ocean because it is of no consequence to us. He drops his drink and food wrapper onto the shore. I do not wish for the sun and rain and the wind to have to work harder so I pick them up. Because we are only visitors. I feel water against my shoulders. He shivers so we walk. Underneath my feet I feel the sand turn to small rock, then to grass.
I stop for a moment and turn. Before we disappear into the green. The water waves goodbye to me and pulls the sand away, as it gives some back. Are you coming? My comrade asks. I turn away and we bend the wet grass as we trudge to our tents.
I hear the dull drops of water against the hull of the bow. The wind begins to whistle against the wood.
Storied By Josh 