It's that time of night where I'm not sure if it's too damn early or really freakin' late. In the spirit of "ah, screw it" I wanna blog anyways. Stupid, but hey, this is me. Another short story tonight. Hope you enjoy it...
The apartment building's facade rose to the smog filled sky like any other run down hole in the city. Screaming out to be painted, repaired, loved. He was across the semi-busy boulevard staring with a torn feeling; love for his ramshackle abode and contempt for still being able to call himself a born and bred Los Angelino. He dragged heavy on his cigarette trying to clear his head with the cloying smoke. An oxymoron to be sure, just like himself. A clean-cut American twenty-something that had always felt in his heart and soul that he should be out in the country. He proved the feeling by growing cooking herbs in his window flower box. Looking at the growing "garden" with a love and pride one reserved for a significant other or a child. It was in large part what drew him back home every night. He couldn't abandon the plants that depended on him. After a long day at his nondescript 9 to 5 in an equally boring office he often wondered what tethered him here. This dirty expanse of skyscrapers and every sort of pollution known to man. His mind would drift to his window box; a green light in a murky haze. He would light his post-drudgery cigarette and wait for the bus back to his plants. From the street he could just see them reaching up to what sun they could get and smiled knowing that he would eventually walk the three flights of stairs to water them and coo and coerce them into staying alive. He would thank them for being so kind as to stay with him and allow him to use their bounty to flavor his food. When his train of thought rumbled down this track he knew why he stayed. He wanted to give the skyline, his building that little bit of green life that he could. It gave him a feeling of accomplishment that only working the soil could give a man. He crushed his dropped cigarette on the sidewalk and sprinted across to his building suddenly excited to see his little family of foliage that brightened the city just enough for him to see.
Jewelry: HardWear by Lindsey
Sister: Film Making and Cookie Baking
Rusty J: Rustified -
Sinus infection. Always with the damn sinus infections. I feel like a dung heap. However, I have been catching up on my sleep. Silver lining, right? All crafting has been pushed aside for now unfortunately. I haven't done a damn thing in a day and a half. This is the part in my spiel where I explain what I'm doing with this post and blah, blah, blah... I'm just gonna throw a short story at you and take a nap. I'd say sorry for being so curt and uncouth, but I really want this nap.
He stopped a moment to look back at the beach, sand turned orange and pink with the sunset, and sighed. It was a sigh full of contentment, of a feeling of being where he belonged, of holy-shit-I-live-in-a-beautiful-place. The rolling of the ocean beneath his board woke him from his reverie. Kicking his feet in an eggbeater motion he lay on his board and paddles for all he's worth to catch the last wave in the set. Knowing it's his last wave of the day he pops up to standing with a whoop. With a huge smile on his face he walks the board, hangs five, and cuts back and forth along the wave. There's no one on the beach or in the water around him; it's just him and the wave. Nearing the shore he crouches down to drag his hand in the water before floating over the back of the wave. As the board sinks, he falls back with a splash and laughs at himself. After he makes it to shore, dries off, and straps his board to the top of his beat up old Nova wagon, he cruises up the coast to watch the sun sink below the watery horizon. Somewhere between singing "Surfer Joe" by The Surfaris and "I Live For the Sun" by The Sunrays he's nearing Santa Monica and thinking about the golden age of surfing. All his life his dad surfed and shaped boards right here in Santa Monica. The surf culture was booming then. There was an unspoken code between the surfers, from the groms to the old hot doggers, and they lived by it. No one could actually tell you what the code was of course, but it was there all the same. Everyone innately knew that the ocean was wild and free and allowed us to ride only if we respected it and, in a way, each other. Near the pier he parked and watched the last rays of sunlight die behind the waves as he listened to the crash of them on the shore. What had happened to the beach? What had happened to the days of waking up before the sun just to see it rise while shooting the curl? He was one of the last of that era to hang in there. He was now the old hot dogger on his long board that the groms saw and either looked up to or called names knowing his time was over. His sun was almost set behind the waves. Soon his board would look pretty over the mantle and he'd be glued to a couch watching tv instead of to that board on the ocean. He thought of his dad and how he quickly lost his health when he couldn't surf or even shape boards anymore. It just happened one day and then 'poof', dad was gone. That wasn't going to happen to him, was it? He resolved that it wouldn't. He would do whatever he had to to keep surfing to his dying day. Nodding and deciding which beach he was going to surf at sunrise tomorrow he started up the Nova wagon and sang along with The Beach Boys, "Catch a wave and you're sittin' on top of the world…"
Ok, definitely nap time now...
Jewelry: HardWear by Lindsey
Sister Site: Film Making and Cookie Baking