Short Story Sunset at the Beach

Discussion in 'The Writer's Corner' started by Ninva, May 30, 2010.

  1. Ninva

    Ninva Анна Ахматова

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    Amy

    By James​

    Two light-green eyes peer off into the fainting sunlight. They glisten in the darkening, evening sky. She gently holds my hand, with a superficial smile granting me passage to her thin, pale lips. As I kissed them with a swift motion, I felt her body shiver as if a chill ran down her spin; however, it was the middle of July. I gave her my jacket. Her curvy, body curled into that piece of heavy fabric. I watched her as she collapsed into my shoulder, as if I were a heavy oak. She sighed with a self-indulged frown as her brow lost all concerned and worried wrinkles in one relaxed exhalation. My right arm wrapped around the wide shoulders of the meek woman. The mass of frizzy, brunette hair moved as I touched her. Her droopy eyes glared at me with such fervent curiosity, as if she were wondering if I were a vision of her dad. Yet my constant breathing and endless gaze out into the ocean gave it away: my existence was no illusion. At this realization, she bit her lower lip and removed her outer skin. My jacket, a dark brown wool sweater, a white shirt with a Element logo on it, and her pants appeared on the sand below. What was soon revealed was a tiny bikini, secretly hidden behind all her clothing. She did not look at me as she went into the ocean. Her naturally tanned legs crashed against the building tide as she pushed farther into the sea. I watched with my mouth almost ajar. It was true that she was stunningly beautiful.

    "Amy," I said as I arose from my seat at the beach.

    She did not reply. Her eyes were set at the horizon. I made my way down towards the beach. She did not halt her advance towards the sun. The woman continued to walk and walk and walk into the sunset. Suddenly, her body began to sink. I watched momentarily until I felt my body fling itself into the water. I dove once my bare feet touched the muddy bed. My legs beat the water as I swam faster and faster, trying to bare without breathing, without thinking, without seeing.

    Then I bumped into her, a floating mass of serenity. I brought her to the surface, where she spat water into my face with one blow, her lips vibrating making a sort-of Bronx cheer. My hands held her steady as the waves moved us ever so closer. Her light-green eyes stared steadily into mine as her coughs quickly reclined into gentle, chest spasms.

    Her body was sleek and soft to touch. She felt like a real mermaid, and I had never touched her in such ways before. A sudden spark ignited, and I found myself slowly kissing this woman. Her lips folded onto mine, and the sea hushed our natural pleas of love. We were swept into the shore, where our bodies intertwined. It felt so good to be with her, and I felt at ease finally.

    "James," Amy muttered to me as we lay before the incoming tide, "take me home."

    "You want to go home?" I inquired.

    "Yes, just take me there... Wherever that may be."

    I looked at her for a long time. It was summer break, and our parents weren't aware of the meeting. They thought we were somewhere else, actually. Our parents weren't even aware that the other person existed.

    So I took her in my arms, and I carried her to my car. I placed her in the back and placed a blanket over her. She closed her eyes as I went away to retrieve her stripped clothing. When I returned, she was sleeping in complete peace. I watched her for a steady half-hour, just thinking about her and her style. We weren't the same anymore. We grew up.

    "Amy," I whispered, "are you awake?"

    She didn't reply.

    "Will you promise me something?"

    Still no reply.

    "Amy, I want you to be my wife."

    Tiny tears leaked down her defined face, and I wiped the tears away. Then her eyes peaked open as I held her face in my palm. She gently rubbed her cheek against it, trying to force all thoughts and emotions out with one aggressive dig at my hand. This was futile, and all that was left was a soft and self-indulged sigh. I watched her as she cried. We were to get married in 2009.

    On our wedding day, symbolically, a small little girl died. She was 24, and the boy who she died to was 23. He was rather mature for his age; actually, he was quite brilliant and absolutely caring for his wife. It is said that the 24 year-old-girl died willingly to the boy of 23. Those who witnessed such a defeat say that she was born for this moment, and that he was born for all the moments ahead. I couldn't tell you if they were right, but the two, small little kids now live in a small little apartment where a small little child bumps around in the stomach of a tall and intelligent person who has one of those small little souls that never seems to die.
     
  2. Ninva

    Ninva Анна Ахматова

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    James

    by Amy​

    His blue eyes weren’t a deformity, like most scholars would say. No, I don’t think brown eyes are the real deal. James had eyes like every other man, but they weren’t special. He just had eyes. That was all they were – eyes! My sister once told me that you could learn a lot about a man by his eyes. This is what I’ve learned from my James: his eyes are always tired and reluctantly fiery, like if a spark only dwindled on for the sake of dwindling. I suppose that’s only romantic if you want to romance it for the sake of romancing.

    James also had a grin, not a weird twisted grin. He just had a grin that would penetrate the soul, which kinda reminds me of the Nirvana song “Jesus Don’t Want Me for a Sunbeam.” That smile could just make a person cry. I cry almost every night when I see it, which has been a lot of nights, lately.

    That mass of hair on the top of his head bothers me too. I often wonder if he’ll ever cut it, but then again, maybe he should start shaving his face first. That ragged beard will never get him anywhere, not even that Ivy College he goes to will help him if he has a f***in’ beard.

    But all I can do is sigh. The man somehow captured my spirit in his greedy breath, and I can not be swayed any other way. I’m in love, my friend. There’s nothing special about that either. It’s just like that – love!
     
  3. Ninva

    Ninva Анна Ахматова

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    Amy's Art

    by James​

    The keyboard tap-tap-tapped in multiple tones and rhythms. As the long fingers curled and recoiled onto to the plastic board, a foot - clothed with a sock colored light-blue - jiggled and rolled on the red shag carpeting. I watched this insignificant body part function in its peculiar mannerism. It seemed very much alive to me because it moved like a little living organism apart from the leg, which was abruptly covered by relaxed sweat pants. Up the pants leg read in white and green letters: "Holter." This was Amy's last name.

    Her comfortable hoodie hid her body from a casual admirer. This humility didn't seem to attract anyone besides me, as I watched from my seat in Amy's small apartment. In my hands was the Dialogues of Plato. Amy also had a copy opened near her stationed computer. The binding was weaker than mine; she had obviously spent more time reading it the night before.

    Amy's brunette hair was gracefully lifted by a hair band that she used to manipulate her hair into a nice little pony tail. I watched all the tiny strands of hair being pulled back by the tight elastic. Under those long hairs was a working brain, hundreds of cells form and create the information in most mysterious ways. I'm certain that none of the most qualified brain surgeons could analyze that mind and rationalized anything that went on in there.

    I suppose, her only construct output was in her college essays. She and I were working for a degree in Humanities. I was the less ambitious one, while she was the most dedicated one; however, that devotion was only an escape from me. I could see it in her eyes. There was no hint in her acknowledging me there in that tiny room. An average couple would have been busy doing something else, not writing and thinking and reading; however, I loved this. She did too.

    "Amy," I said. She turned her face towards me with mouth agape.

    "Yes, hun," she replied.

    "Do you like poetry?"

    "Are you talking about Homer?"

    "No."

    "Then no, I don't."

    She turned her back to me and went to work. Inside my book of Plato was a variety of poems that I had written. They were about falling in love. Spring was the season.
     
  4. Ninva

    Ninva Анна Ахматова

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    James’ Coat

    by Amy​

    There is a coat inside my bathroom. The thing is damp from the rain fall we had this late afternoon. Its ragged fabrics smells like a decomposing caucus. I wanted to throw it away immediately, until I felt the soft wool in my hands. At that moment, I realized that it was James’ old jacket from high school. He accidentally gave it to me on a date in the late spring while we were dancing on his porch. The kid wasn’t very cold at the time, so he let me wear it the whole night. At the time, the coat was filled with his energy and scent, but now, it’s rather ragged and lifeless. I supposed that I wore the poor thing too much: I guess that’s what happens to love when you wear it too much. It gets old.

    James comes through the doorway. He carries a book of Aristotle instead of the book of Plato that we were assigned to read in class. James is like that; he’d start one thing and then move to the next like a child with ADHD. It’s rather amusing actually.

    Between his fingers lays a cigarette. Its tip burns freshly, and I watched the young man take a drag as he greets me hello. That old, ragged jacket smell starts to choke me. James is getting old, like his jacket.
     
  5. dead-manakin

    dead-manakin New Member

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    Incredibly good writing I must say. I love your first one. It really hooked me and made me feel as If I was James. Very well writen. :)
    It seemed as If it came right off of the pen of a professional novelist!
     
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