Young Writers Society

I walked down the pier to the ocean. The long metal planks stretched out far from shore, and with each step I heard my bare feet clang on the thin steel. I breathed deeply and tasted the clean, salty air. I walked for what seemed like forever, watching the land fall away, until I stood there. At the very end of the pier, where the world drops off, where the ocean swallows everything, is as far as I have ever gotten to my dream. I had stood on the edge many a time, sat there, breathed there, reached out my hands to get closer. Every inch counted, and as the years passed and I grew taller and my arms grew longer, I could reach closer and closer to Paradise. But now, I had stopped growing, and my progress stopped short.

To prevent the sadness welling in my chest from getting larger, from strangling me, I admired what I had. This beautiful pier, the crystal clear waters of the ocean. The water was so pure that it reflected the sky better than anything I had seen, almost like a mirror. Clouds moved across the water, and waves raced across the blue. I watched the dolphins spread their wings in the distance and glide, dropping back into the water without a splash. I could see straight down to the sea bottom, and I watched as the starfish shone brightly, their arms waving wildly as they crawled along the sandy ocean floor. I had never seen any other ocean than my own, but I thought it was the most gorgeous sight that could exist in the world.

Except for Paradise.

I shook my head. I remembered Granddad’s words, reminded myself of his advice. We had been sitting on the front porch when I told him my dream, him in his rocking chair, the paint peeling and the metal seat dented, me on the front steps. I was watching the flamingos fly past, admiring how the sky reflected into their wings, turning them a light purple.

I said, quietly, mostly to myself, “I wonder if Paradise has flamingos.”

Granddad looked at me sharply, said, “Son, do flamingos build boats? Of course they ain’t got no Big Beaks. You’d need Noah’s ark to get to that fairy land, if it even exists, and I sure wouldn’t take no stinking flamingos.”

I shut my mouth then and stared at the moon instead of the purple birds.

Granddad took a deep breath, waiting. I waited, too. We sat waiting, waiting for our lives to begin, for dreams to come true, for people lost to return, waiting, waiting, waiting. Always waiting.

I’m still waiting to this day. Waiting for Grandpa to come back, give me advice on how to build a Noah’s Ark. Did he know? He was right, though. I needed a boat, and everyone knew that you couldn't cut down the dryad trees for wood, and metal don’t float so well. I had heard stories of giant ships -like Arks, only smaller- that were made of metal, and could push themselves through the water real fast, no help from the wind or nothing, and stayed afloat. I couldn’t see any way under the suns that that could be possible. After all, they’re just stories.

I did know one way I could get a boat, but it sure wouldn’t be an Ark. The rich, they could make boats out of driftwood. Real wood, dead stuff, without spirits in them. If you collected enough, you could make a small boat of your own. And then it was off to Paradise for you. Us who were left behind don’t know if they ever made it, those rich freaks who beat everyone to the driftwood, ‘cause all we know is the sea, the sky, the land, and the pier.

Granddad doubted Paradise existed. I know it’s real. I have proof, but I’ve never shown nobody but myself and the village wise man. I found it when I was walking on the pier about a year ago. It was floating right next to the metal poles holding the walkway up, and I almost didn’t notice it because it was almost the same blue as the sky on the sea. I did notice the silver ends, though, and I fished it out with my shoelace. It was a rectangular box, only it wasn’t, because it was smooth and slippery on the outside and I could feel something squishy on the inside. A wrapper of some sort. It had markings all over it, written in white and red. I can’t read, but it was obviously letters, on the front and back, weird curly symbols, little circles randomly placed in between and on and under. My eyes hurt looking at them, but my mind felt revived. It felt well sealed, like whatever was inside was well protected by the smooth wrapper that stuck together in pointed edges on the ends. I shook it, but it didn’t make any sound but the crackling of the wrapper.

I was afraid to open it, but I knew I had to, or it would drive me crazy. I slowly peeled the pieces of smooth apart, watched as sticky stuff ripped from inside, revealing another rectangular shape. It was lumpy and looked as if multiple pieces of ovals were stuck together. I sniffed it, it smelled sweet. Very sweet. My mouth began to water. I ripped off one oval, watched more sticky white stuff pull apart. I nibbled it, then popped the whole sphere in my mouth. Snap, crackle, pop! it went in my mouth. It was delicious, that tiny piece, and I knew it was from Paradise. I saved the rest, re-wrapping it in the original smooth, and showed it to the town wise man.

The wise man was old and wrinkled, with skin dark as night and eyes bright as starfish. We met in his metal scrap hut, before a lantern full of lightning-bugs. Being the only person with the ability to read, he held up the parcel. He studied the words and pronounced them slowly.

“Kel...Kellogg’s Rice Krispies Treats. The...” he squinted at the letters. “Original.”

What did it mean? Neither of us had any idea, which convinced me even more that it was a sign that I was destined for Paradise someday. I swore the old man to secrecy, and held the “treats” in my breast pocket at all times. I ate one of the spherical pieces each week, to remind myself of the glory that I would strive to reach. It was halfway gone. I needed to get to Paradise soon, or the memories would fade.

I sat on the edge as I always did, dangling my feet over the cliff at the end of world, fiddling with a boat charm that hung from a chain around my neck. I had whittled it myself, then painted it blue with gold stripes. I had had a dream once, of a boat like this one sailing me across the rift in the Earth, and onto Paradise. When I collected enough driftwood, and built a boat, it would look just like that one.

I heard footsteps clanging down the metal walkway behind me. I turned and saw a beautiful woman striding down the pier. Her face was pale and blank, like a mannequin, and her outline was smudged, melting into the pier and the sky and the sea, like the world was a painting and the artist had yet to make finishing touches. As she moved, her smudges followed, and her face never grew features. Soon she stood before me, and reached out her smudged hand.

I took it, and stood up. She stroked my face, sending tingles through my skin, and turned to stare with nonexistent eyes out at the sea. I turned as well, and my existent eyes grew wide, my jaw dropped.

There, so close that I could touch it, was my boat. It was no Ark, but it was definitely my boat. Blue with gold stripes, large sail for catching wind, even an anchor, already dug into the ground. How had I missed it sailing to the pier?

Inside the boat was a smudged man, just like the woman, and beside him was a young girl who looked about my age. Her body and the edges of her face were smudged, but she was different than the man and woman. Her skin was still dark, like mine, dark as dryad bark. Though she had no mouth, no nose, she still had eyes. Large, brown, moist eyes, full of emotion and surrounded with dark lashes. What emotions, I could not perceive.

The trio turned to look at me, blank faces, except for the girl’s eyes. They reached their hands to me, and I knew that this boat, the boat of my dreams, would take me to Paradise. But my dreams hadn't consisted of blank people, smudged people, people who all looked the same. I wondered what the girl had been before she became smudged. When would she lose her eyes for seeing? When had she lost her ears for hearing? How long ago? Had she once been a normal girl, laughing and playing, running through the dryad woods, playing on the shore? This was not what I had wanted for myself. I wanted to find my own way, not the way of these blank people.

I backed away, to the very edge of the pier. My heels hung over the air, the water, the end of the world. The woman reached for me, smudged fingers trailing my right cheekbone like wisps of smoke...

I wobbled, and fell.

I grasped onto the pier, hanging over the cliff, the edge. The woman’s face twisted, and a mouth ripped its way through her pale skin, a giant yawning mouth with thousands of sharp teeth, coming right at me. I swung my body frantically under the pier, and released my hold. As soon as I hit the water, it hit me- I can’t swim. I sunk to the bottom of the sea, my beloved ocean, and sat beside the glowing stars. My clothes held me down, I tried to yank them off, but the sand had my feet, pulling me, holding me. I watched the blue bubbles escape my lips as the surface grew farther and farther away.

I yanked a hand up and held it up to the moon, the beautiful moon way above the water, way above the sky and the flamingos in it.

A mermaid swam up to rest beside me. Her blond hair billowed out around her, like a cloud. Just like the pink ring of a dragon fruit slice were her irises around her slit pupils. Her green-tinged skin shone and her lion-teeth sparkled as she opened her mouth to sing. I thrashed once more against my clothes, against the sand, against the water, the lovely sea that I had adored so much, only to have it betray me in the end. My lungs began to ache from lack of air. Abruptly I stopped, just watching her, all hope lost. I closed my eyes as I listened to her song, eerie and beautiful in the depths of the sea. The pressure in my chest was building, but I listened, listened with all my heart. The music bubbled out, surrounded me, even as I felt the sand swallowing me up.

That is no Noah’s Ark,

It’s breaking your heart.

For there are no happy endings in fairy tales,

Everyone dies, everyone fails.

But don’t worry, dear,

Really, it’s fine son,

For your life

Was destined to be a barren one.

Alas, my dear, it is for the best,

You may as well lay down to rest.

And, please, no need to scream.

For this is only...

A dream...

And I woke.

*Based on a dream I had on the night of July 13, 2013. Hope you liked the glimpse into my mind!*