Mike's Literature *In the Surf*

In the Surf~
For the most part a true story, I enhanced the waves and the distance I swam through

A long time ago, I lived in a town called Bonita Springs on the west coast of Florida, facing the Gulf of Mexico. I was only a fifteen minute bike ride from the white sandy beaches and lived next to a canal. The smell of the sweet salty air clung to my clothes along with the softener my mother used. The smell always takes me back there, when life was simple and easy, playing in the sunshine with the kids across the street, visiting my grandmother, who lived almost next to us; not a care in the world. I was only ten then, short with sun bleached and almost white hair hanging just over my ears. My hazel eyes would sparkle in the sunshine as I stared out over the water. I was a well tan lad and very fit, I could outrun most everything on the beach, and would occasionally race the small flocks of sandpipers that would wander through the thin surf, picking at mollusks and small beach dwelling critters.
It was on one of the days I’d ridden my bike to the beach, that this story takes place. It was sunny and warm, at least ninety degrees; which was unusual for the more mild winter of the western coast of Florida. My brother and a friend across the street, to be my first girlfriend in two years, came along. We rode slowly and leisurely in the heat of the afternoon, the sun beating down on the blacktop of the rough old roads. We passed many smaller dwellings, most not higher than a story; the more expensive houses were further down the streets we passed through. We chatted and laughed happily, crossing a huge bridge, fishermen leaning against ‘NO FISHING’ signs as they tried to haul up the large fish they’d snagged.
As we made it to the beach, a small breeze picked up, tossing spray from the already tall waves, into the air, sparkling like so many tiny diamonds. The wind tussled our hair as we sat out on the almost deserted beach, the powdery white sand, as thin as flour, squashing itself between our toes. After only ten or so minutes of the relaxing silence, only interrupted by the coarse calls of seagulls and the crash of the large waves, I stood and stretched.
“I’m going in!” I said, and dashed forward, as fast as my legs could carry me, and dove into an oncoming wave, crashing through and out the other side. Pumping my arms hard, I crested the next wave, the behemoth swells of water at least three or four feet high. I swam for at least five minutes before my feet touched down on soft sand under the surface of the water, the waves diminished to lap lazily at my waist as I emerged onto a long sand bar that was frequently easy to get to at the lower tide. Stretching, I turned to see my brother emerge from the surf behind me, at least a head shorter than me and two years younger. He wasn’t as thin as I was, but his hair and eyes were the same color as mine.
Far away on the beach, I could see our friend, waving from shore. I waved back, but her waving became more frantic and I realized something was wrong. Quickly, I did a three sixty, looking for whatever was worrying her, my brother picking at shells on the gulf floor. Then I spotted it, almost half a mile down the beach, a small group of people were running about frantically, I could see a few girls in bikinis crying as who I presumed to be their fathers tried to comfort them. At last, I spotted a person’s head as it crested a wave, close to as far out as I was, but much further down the beach. With a pang of fear, I realized it was a small child, not more than five years old, her life jacket barely keeping her above the rough surf.
I yelled for my brother to get to shore and dove into the water, kicking hard as I made my way toward the child. It was rough going; I was swimming against the tide, trying to sweep me back down the beach, huge waves crashed over my head, submerging me one moment, my head popping above the surface the next. After what seemed like ages, my limbs grew weary and I was about to give up when I heard a faint cry. Treading water, I kicked upward at the next wave, coming higher than any around me to look around.
Only ten yards away bobbed the child, his face contorted into a mask of fear distorting the young girl’s face. Taking a deep breath, I dove beneath the surface of the greenish blue water, the salt and turned up sand stinging my eyes as I struck out, my lungs easily holding enough air to stay under. Then, from before me, appeared the body of the child, her legs kicking hard against the water. Her struggles were weak and sluggish though, and I knew she was tired. Kicking hard, I came to the surface next to her, her crying of fear paused for a moment as she saw me bobbing there next to her before a wave landed on us both, plunging me deep underwater, the girl’s life jacket holding her closer to the surface.
Reaching out, I grabbed the back of the jacket and began pulling her toward shore, struggling to swim with one tired arm, the weight of the child being towed behind me. Fortunately, we were going with the waves and I swam, if not with ease, toward the now distant shore. After almost ten minutes of strenuous swimming, I could feel the sand with the tips of my toes, but I kept swimming, hauling the still screaming girl behind me. Finally, a large man appeared from the side and grabbed the girl, hoisting her out of the waist deep water. I stood slowly, my legs weak from the effort I’d exerted.
I stumbled up the soft beach and flopped down on my towel, my brother was there waiting for me. Sitting up slowly, I looked around, my vision blurry as my eyes stung from the salt water. The large group of people was around us, they thanked me repeatedly, patting me on the back and offering me water. After twenty or so minutes, the large family, there on vacation from Maine, left the beach, leaving me alone with my brother and our friend. Happily, I got up after resting, and we rode our bikes home, there, I collapsed into a lawn chair in the back yard, looking out over the murky water of the canal, a huge weeping willow hanging over the surface, its tendrils touching the water every so often in the breeze, sending out a dozen tiny ripples.
It was later, when my brother war retelling the story that I realized that I’d been gone for twenty minutes after I left the sandbar and my brother. I like to figure I was at least a mile out in the gulf when I caught up to the child, though I know it wasn’t near so far. Now, at the age of seventeen, I help teach children water rescue and sailing for the Sea Scouts organization.





Marta

I rolled out of bed, groaning loudly as I flopped to the cold rough floorboards. Shivering, I stood, goose pimples spreading across my bare chest as the cold air hit my skin. I longed so badly to climb back into the warm, rough wool sheets and sleep, but I had to get up. Slowly, I staggered to my chest of drawers, and, like everything else I owned, it was rough and worn; the handle on one of the drawers was even missing.
Yanking it open, I yanked a brown shirt out and threw it over my shoulders, buttoning the front quickly to keep the cold at bay. Rubbing my arms, I stepped to a small rusty metal tub of water. Grasping it on either side, I looked up into the grimy mirror. My long blonde hair hung a few inches past my shoulders, parting at my brow, and framing by tan face. My white eyes stared back at me, taking in my fair round face. Slowly, I broke into a grin, revealing two rows of pearl white teeth, all shaped perfectly.
Dipping my hands into the frigid water, I splashed my face and ran my hands through my hair, feeling some of the dirt and grime wipe away. Standing up, I wiped my face on my sleeve and turned back to my dresser. Pulling a drawer open, I drew out a long black belt with a small cloth pouch and a long dagger in a sheath strapped to it. Tucking in my shirt, I tightened it around my waist, feeling the sheath pat against my right leg. I then slipped on a black leather vest and some smooth leather gloves.
Looking down at my hands, I sighed. The gloves had been my father’s, back when he was alive. I smiled gently at his memory, but the happiness was immediately replaced by a scowl as I remembered the last thing he’d said to me.
“I won’t be coming back son, take care of Marta and your mother. And take these. Always remember me,” he’d said, handing me the gloves. A tear dripped from my eye and I jammed my eyes shut. Two years ago, my mother passed from the plague, a year after my father died in battle. All I had now was Marta, my little sister. Turning back to my bed, I smiled. The little girl, only ten now, slept, curled into a tight, warm ball. She was my life now and I had to protect her at all cost. I had to give her a good life, like Mom and Dad would have wanted us to have. It was too late for me, but I was scraping up just enough money to put her into school, and in a year, she would be old enough to join a manner house and work in a privileged maid position as my mother had.
Turning slowly, I exited the room, closing the door quietly behind me. Running up the stairs, I came into the main room of the Inn where Marta and I were allowed to stay for small favors every now and again. The owner was just up and sat in front of the fire, a mug of hot run in his hand. Several drunks from the night before still slept at their tables; spit and vomit leaking from their mouths. Disgusted, I walked past the small cluster of tables and bar to the door. Yanking it violently, I unlatched it and stepped out into the small cobble street; tall ratty buildings rising up on either side of the six foot wide road. Plaster was peeling off of most of the wood and wet clothes were hung across the street, dripping grey wash water onto anyone who dares to venture under them.
Turning, I ran up the street, winding through the grungy complex of roads known as the Under City. It was a squalor of tall buildings with people packed in like fish in a barrel, with roads winding through it in confusing patterns. The whole place was designed to delay invading armies by sending them on a romp through several miles of tunnel like roads, so thin only a few men can walk shoulder and shoulder.
After almost half an hour of running, I made it to the main gate where a large number of troops were stationed, ready to go raiding along the coast. They were set up in the twenty foot gap between the inner walls and the buildings. Even at this early hour, several were up, standing around the small door leading into the gatehouse. The gates wouldn’t be open for another few hours when daybreak came, but single travelers were allowed to pass through this small door.
Slowing my run, I jogged up to the door and was about to go through when a gloved hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. Three tall, fully armored men, stood before me, all with mugs of some kind of alcohol in their hands. With a shove, he pushed me hard against the wall.
“What are you doin’ up at this hour kid?” he asked, slurring badly.
“It’s none of your business,” I said and turned to go through, but he stopped me, shoving me against the wall again.
“Oh, it’s my business if I feel like it is,” the big man said and reached for my money pouch on my belt. Slapping his hand away with my left forearm, I drew my dagger quickly with my other hand.
“Oh! The boy thinks he can fight us!” he bellowed, dropping his mug and drawing his fist back. With a grunt, he swung at my head, I ducked and he smashed his chain mail cladded fist into the stone wall. Bellowing, I stumbled back, holding his hand. One of the other men drew his sword and swung at me. Stepping closer to him, I deflected the swing with my dagger and stepped on one of his feet. Spinning, I backed into him, forcing him to the ground. The other man was busy trying to unbuckle his sword, and I slipped away into the gatehouse and through the hallway into the main city.
I made it all the way to the market square before I ran out of breath. Stopping, I kneeled over, my hands on my knees, breathing hard. Looking around, the ring of tall sand colored buildings loomed ominously over the open square. Crudely built wooden booths were ringing the square, a few even covered alleyways leading further into the city. The rough greenish cobbles were uneven and made quite a noise as a mule and cart plodded along, headed for one of the open booths. Getting a booth in the Sunday market was quite the feat as people would show up well before sunup to claim the best. I straightened up and smiled. Walking to the biggest nearby stand, I hopped over the counter and began acting as if I were getting things ready. I sat there for almost an hour before the entire market had filled up.
About half an hour after sunup, the high end shoppers emerged from the side streets and descended upon the merchants, haggling and bartering their ways to better prices. I had a few small trinkets set on the counter, a few rings, a few necklaces, a top and some other assorted toys. I sat leaned back on a stool, whittling at a piece of wood to become my next top.


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Fire from the Sky

“FIRE, FIRE FROM THE SKY!” Screamed little Timmy, running up the dark suburban street. The sky was dark, unlit by the mood and stars on this night, covered by dark heavy clouds. Even the perfect green lawns and white picket fences looked menacing in the dark that not even the street lamps could fully penetrate. Lights came on in the houses as sleep worn inhabitants rushed onto their porches to watch the small ragged boy running down the street.
“FIRE RAINS FROM THE SKY!” he screamed again in a high, terrified voice. As the residents of the neighborhood looked to the roiling clouds above, the ground was lit by a brilliant red flash from at least a mile away. The flash was soon followed by a shattering blast wave, blowing yard decorations into a frenzy and sending the people who had ventured from their porches into a flailing stumble. The wave of hot air led the sounds of a withering blast. Just as the wind had calmed, the clouds above were lit by the same red light, only brighter this time, and right over their heads. The ominous glow continued for a whole minute before the clouds parted and a massive fireball could be seen streaking from the sky. Almost slowly, it arced, coming to blast, unwavering toward the small suburban community.
With a shrieking crash, the projectile slammed into the ground, immediately annihilating a dozen houses and sending airborne shrapnel in all directions. The blast of hot air that followed decimated at least another fifty houses in the same square mile. But on the boy ran, screaming his message to the people of earth as they were assaulted by these cosmic projectiles.
After almost four hours of the withering assault on the west coast of America, the meteors stopped falling, leaving a smoke clogged sky, and acid raining down onto those who had survived the onslaught. Forest fires were spreading rapidly as small flecks of burning rock still rained from the sky. At least four hundred square miles of once inhabited land had been demolished, leaving massive craters perforating the dark soil like a huge mass of Swiss cheese.
Miles and miles away, the clouds parted for only a second before the eyes of an astrologist staring into the sky with his telescope. They revealed the surface of another planet, floating just outside the earth’s atmosphere, it’s surface a dark green with massive pools of deep azure blue breaking the masses of green into continents. It was about the size of earth, but was much lusher, much greener. As he looked upon its surface, he found it to be like looking into a satellite feed staring down at a military compound. Massive anti air guns were settled in between even larger metal houses and halls and hangers. These gun’s barrels, he estimated, were each larger than the empire state building, while four were settled into each gun, thousands of which littered the surface of the planet.
This was the war of the worlds, literally, and this strange planet was prepared, while the earth was nothing of the sort.

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Pandora Flower-


There once existed a flower. Such a beautiful flower it was. The colors shone even on the darkest night, almost giving their own sparkling light to their surroundings. But it wasn’t one set of colors as the field daisies and the lilies were, no, it was every color in the universe; the darkest of blues and the lightest of reds, the most gorgeous yellows and the most brilliant greens. It was truly the most beautiful living thing that ever existed. But she was lonely, for there was only one of her. As the men waged war over her possession, none held her heart. She waited for a thousand years before a single boy came to her pedestal. He was small and sickly, frail even. He worked in the castle of Queen Durana as a cleaning boy for all of the places the other cleaners couldn’t go. But that day, he decided to go to see the legendary flower. The queen had restricted the viewing of the flower, and she only now shared its beauty with the noblest of guests, but this boy wanted to badly to see it; and so he came into the room, creeping through the shadows until he came to stare down at the amazing flower. The flower, so intrigued by the boy, stared back up at him, into his eyes. He was pure, and simple. He held no self-serving right to others, or to her. His soul was kind and his hands tender; he wore the rags of a beggar, but held the spirit of a kind king.
‘So long have I waited for one like you,” the flower said unto him, casting her melodious voice into his mind. Unlike the others she’d dared to speak to, this boy only smiled, not shying away in fear or clutching at their head.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ was all he said, still smiling at her.
‘And you,’ she responded.
‘Me? No, I’m a ratty little servant boy, I wear not the colors of every flower of this earth, nor speak with the serenading voice of a thousand angels,’ he said, still unwavering.
‘You flatter me, but you must understand, I may wear the beauty of nothing else, but I cannot feel as people would. I cannot love as others do,’ she said, a sad twinge in her soft voice.
‘I can teach you!’ said the boy, ‘I can teach you to love and to feel!’
And from then on, the little cleaning boy would come and talk to the flower every day. They would talk and share stories, and soon, the boy found himself in love with the flower, and the flower with him. But one day, as the boy sat talking to the flower, the large crystal doors of the flowerhouse burst open. The queen’s guards charged in, yelling all sorts of commands, the feel being, ‘get away from the flower,’ The boy stood, his back to the pedestal, blocking their way.
‘Why! What do you want of the flower?’ he yelled at them.
‘The queen has ordered it destroyed. It is the cause of her sickness, she is sure!’ they said, pointing their spears at the small boy’s chest.
‘Of what convinces her of this?! The flower has been here for three years, and yet she only now is sick?’ the boy yelled back.
‘Just stand aside child, or we’ll have to kill you too,’ the guard said, stepping forward.
‘I’d rather die than let you hurt this flower,’ the boy said in a low voice.
‘Then you have sealed your fate,’ the guard said, stepping forward and plunging the head of the spear into the poor boy’s stomach. With a gasp, he fell to the floor, the screams of the flower echoing in his head as it felt his pain. Slowly, the guards advanced on her. The boy lay on the ground, staring up at her, unblinking, dying. With a scream that echoed through the minds of all in the kingdom, the flower burst from the glass orb covering her. Slowly, she morphed, taking on the shape of a beautiful young woman, her leaves turning to a silken green dress, her petals turning to shining auburn hair falling elegantly around her shoulders. Her scream became audible as she took form, standing barefoot on the marble steps that had been her home for the last three years. One of the guards turned and fled, the door crashing as he exited. The other three guards stood their ground, their spears pointed at the woman. They were never to be heard from again.
The room became sealed from the inside, the panes of glass covered by vines and leaves. Soon, the vegetation from the room spread, clutching at the huge castle, suffocating the stone walls and driving from the castle its inhabitants. Years later, a lone soldier, lost from his platoon, stumbled upon the ruins of the castle. Searching around, he found a crystal room, with only a small gap in the vines. Peering inside, he could see two flowers, their colors like nothing he’d ever seen, wrapped together, their heads almost pressed together as if in an eternal kiss.
-The Pandora Flower

Woah, those were really good. Im proud, Mikey

I wished that the first one would keep going, it felt a bit short.

The pandora flower was really well written and had an interesting story to it.

Good job

Thank you Drag

Updated with a current work in progress 'Marta'

Updated with In the Surf