Washed Up – Part 1
New site, new mindset, new direction. Some things don’t change however. So you’re stuck with me in these prefaces, writing the thoughts and moments as they occur to me. Recording events as they happen to and around me.
The new website gives me a chance to shift gears, to change lanes, to enter the highway. I mean, really, just pick your car metaphor. They all work. Mostly what it affords me a chance to develop a format that feels like something that is quintessentially Justin. This may be my business now, but I want to emphasize the my in this relationship, thank you very much.
So, it’s a mixture of business with just enough personality to round off all the sharp edges. This is a place for stories, not lifeless boiled click-bait. So, expect some peas mixed in with your carrots.
We all know they go better together anyway.
Washed Up – Part 1
The sea-foam flowed around the still form which had been so carelessly tossed up by the tide. The waters were a sharp purple color, the foam a tinted orange full of glowing plant-life. The form stirred. Weakly at first, so slow that the movements might’ve been attributed to the waves rather than agency. Soon though, the movements broke form with the water, and the figure began to stir in a more rhythmic fashion.
The form began to swim, arms cutting swathes of pebbly sand, feet splashing into soupy muck in motions of bone-weary repetition.
The motions slowed once more, and suddenly the thrashing grew more violent. Shouts came, muffled by the shield visor which was locked into position in the figures helmet. Fumbling, gloved fingers swam through the air now, desperate to find the restraints securing the hated device to its head. The fingers found their mark; more through chance than intended motions. The clasps in question rasped, air escaping the helmet with the sharp hissing of internal pressure, and the sound of the screams carried off into the barren shore as the figure struggled to a kneeling position.
The hands which had fumbled so aimlessly for the helmet clasps threw the helmet away with far more accuracy and vigor than mere chance would allow. The screaming subsided, and the only sound apart from the crashing of purple waves were the desperate gasps of a soul once more free to breathe as it may.
Cinnamon colored hair was plastered to a sweaty brown face everywhere that it had escaped from it’s tight bun. Green eyes surveyed the environment before them, and sharp, muscled features began to slow in their desperate quest for oxygen. The form sat back on its haunches, feet pushed more deeply into the shore by the motion. The figure did not seem to care, and the eyes simply continued surveying the surroundings. Weighing, assessing, measuring, cataloging, dismissing. The gaze was cool and deliberate; nothing overlooked, nothing misplaced, no judgments made until all the information was gathered.
Then a thick, cockney rumble escaped the calculating face, uttering what the mind behind had assembled for no ears but her own.
“Well I’m right snookered, aren’t I?”
To be continued…
Wavefully,
The Unsheathed Quill
