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by Sara Harricharan
1/03/2008 / Short Stories
It is dark tonight.
But the water is calling me.
Soft waves lapping at my feet along the shorline. Sand squeezing up between my toes.
The water is calling so sweetly.
A salty, musky odor. The scent of adventures gone past and new ones calling my name.
The sky is dark blue. Cheri says when it's this kind of blue, it is dusken. I don't know what that means, but it sounds mysterious.
I like mysterious.
The ocean is as much a mystery to me and I am to it.
I call him Ocanarius. Cheri says I'm not supposed to name it because it isn't mine.
She says all the oceans have names.
Like Atlantic Ocean or Pacific Ocean.
I think Ocanarius sounds much better. Deeper. As deep the water goes.
Some nights I wish the water would come and take me away. Deep under the surface, to the parties below with all the pretty fish and creatures that glow.
It must be so pretty.
A different kind of pretty.
Cheri says the only pretty thing from the oceans are seashells. I asked her why they call them seashells if you can find them near oceans. She told me to go take a walk.
So here I am, telling Ocanarius my troubles. He says that when I'm sleeping, he talks to the King and tells him what's going on down here.
The King is the one who made all of this. He made me, even my mismatched freckles and he made Ocanarius.
I like to talk to him too, but sometimes it's easier to talk to Ocanarius because I can float on him.
When you're floating, it's very easy to talk about things.
Ocanarius looks like a mirror. I can see my almost-shadow on his sleek surface.
I wave at him.
He soaks me from head to toe with another icy wave.
The water is deliciously cold.
I inch closer to the wetness.
My eyes close in bliss as the water washes over my feet.
It feels so good.
Whispers reach my ears and I have to open my eyes.
Cheri is calling.
"I have to go." I tell Ocanarius, bending to run my fingers through the water. "I'll be back tomorrow night." My fingers close around smoothness.
My stepmother is standing in the doorway as I run down the shoreline and towards the lantern on the porch.
She is fussing over me in minutes, scolding me for getting wet at this hour and tracking sand into the house.
She's been like this since Dad died.
I give her a smooth shell and head for the bathroom. "Goodnight Cheri."
Turning the taps on, I pull the other shell from my pocket.
The faint scent of salt assures me there is a tomorrow.
"Tomorrow Ocanarius." I whisper. "Tomorrow."
Sara Harricharan is a young Christian woman with a passion for writing for the Lord through faith-filled Science Fiction/Fantasy stories and pure words. www.fictionfusion.blogspot.com
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