Untitled

I wrote this a while ago and am wonder what I should do with it. I like it a lot. Maybe a writing contest? It was based off a picture that this group and I did writings for. The picture of a wave. I don't think you know where I'm going with this, so let's keep it that way.

So enjoy! This is called... well, Untitled.



UNTITLED

The wave.
It Curves.
Curves like the moon.

Then it disappears.

"Did you see it?!"

"Yeah, I did."

Is there anyone that sees what I see?

It pulls back, arches, and falls.

Tears spread.

Tears of joy?

How could there be joy?

Temptation got to it.
Forever pulling the lives of others back and forth,
Following the moon in it's cycles.

"I'm going to surf!"

"Eh? Oh, okay."

She doesn't notice.

She won't.

I stare down watching them.

They don't see me.

I don't want to do this.

But I have to.

"Ma! Look!"

"I see you!"

She laughs as her child runs into the water with his board.

Please go back out.

Please.

The day is bright, it's sunny, beautiful even.

Please go back out.

Please.

But the boy can't hear me, she cheers him on.

So peaceful.

So calm.

So...

Untouched.

"MA! Look!!"

"Wonderful dear! You're doing great!"

He goes farther and farther in.

"THERE'S A WAVE! LOOK MA!"

"I SEE YOU!"

She needs to shout,
and strain to hear him.

He does the same.

The wave goes up.

No, why didn't you listen?

The wave curls.

He was too late.

He was too small.

So small.

The wave falls.

"DEAR! GET OUT!"

It's too late.

He's lost under the wave.

It crashes into the shore, flat, there's nothing.

The board floats up to the surface.

Where is the boy?

He's lost in my blue.

How can I look so innocent, so wonderful?

How can I when I just took a boy's life?

The mother wails.

I wash the board up on shore.

And other waves softly crash at the mother's feet.
She picks up the only thing to remember her late son.
His board.

The waves bring the mother tears.

My tears.

She kneels down,
grabs the board,
looks out into my deep blue.

"Why?!"

She screams at me.

I want to explain.

But I know I can't.

She wouldn't listen.

Who would?

Who would listen to the ocean.

The waves cry my tears, tears of guilt.

How can the ocean be happy if it follows the moon?

How can it be happy if the waters are only made of tears?

-Jasmine