Cycling Sand
- from the library of prose
- brought to you by Liya
- published in Issue VI: Dec ’07
A Beckett tribute
My mouth is filled with sand.
I’m not too sure how I got here, buried deep into the beach. It’s low
tide, and I can hear the seagulls cawing overhead. There are clouds,
far off in the distance, bright, white and fluffy. They seem inviting
and delicious. I’m not sure if I have limbs or not anymore.
I imagine that the clouds must be springy and delicate, much unlike
the sand in my mouth. To have clouds in my mouth instead of this sand.
They must be meltingly sweet, like fresh-fallen snow.
Snow. I’m not sure what that is, but it must taste like clouds. It’s
nice to daydream, but.
The sun beats down on me as it rises into the sky. It is a cruel
master, pushing me down as it rises. I close my eyes and see the red
translucence of my eyelids. It is calming, and for a moment, I forget
that.
I can’t swallow it, but it’s there. Every time I move my tongue, I
feel cuts opening up. I can feel each individual grain of sand as it
moves across my tongue, my cheeks, my lips. The salt burns something
fierce, and leeches the moisture from my mouth.
Slowly, I move my tongue to push the sand out of my mouth. I can taste
my own blood, coating the grains. It is laborious, but soon, my mouth
is empty. My lips are caked in sand.
I think back to last night, to the night before, the weeks, the
months, the years before, yet I cannot recall anything. There is
nothing I know, except.
The sea is advancing, as the waves slowly march upwards. At first, the
water is a blessing, relieving me of the pain of the sunrays. But the
water continues and seeps into what I think are my lungs. I cannot
feel them inflate. I only know that I can breathe; nothing else,
except.
The grainy texture and the mineral taste.
My mouth is filled with sand.
It is tomorrow, and.
My mouth is filled with sand.
Two pennies please.