I gazed out at the water, the winds picking up the surf and sending sea foam through the air. I remembered my father telling me how sea foam was actually mermaids, dead mermaids who had lost their souls. He had always been a cynical man in that fashion. Regardless of the origins of the sea foam though, it worried me. The sky was dark and overcast, a great howling wind coming up from the south. Warm winds to fuel storms; that was never a good sign. I pulled my canoe out of the water, dragging it up the beach in my small, bare feet. These beaches hadn't been polluted yet, hadn't been tampered with by man and left with trash and waste for as far as the eye could see.
I walked into the little hut that had been constructed, sitting upon great pillars of concrete. It was small, but it was a sturdy creation. Behind the decorative straw and thatching rested strong wood supports and reinforced concrete walls, enough to weather and survive any storm that nature could throw at it. It was my pride, a home to protect me and my family. It had served me well over the years, and it looked as though it'd have its job cut out for it tonight.
I lashed the boat to the front porch, knowing from experience that when morning came, it was possible I'd need it to go into town. Closing the door, I smiled at the reassuring thud of inch thick hardwood. It made me wonder why I even bothered with the facade of weakness. The straw served no other purpose than to create the illusion of a primitive civilization, something for the tourists to oo and aah over. I still hadn't replaced the wood shingles for the pillars. Didn't feel like going through all the work just for them to rot off come the next storm.
Sighing, I picked up the radio and turned it on, listening to some music before switching it over to the weatherman. They were saying it was going be a big storm; I simply said a prayer and stopped listening. I went to the window, staring out at the ocean, even as it stared back at me. It didn't mean any harm, of course. It was a creature of instinct, doing as it pleased not for any malice but because it simply was who it was. A far nobler beast than what could be said for many. Perhaps the ocean wasn't entirely wrong to lash out at humanity, for all the problems we had caused it. I could only beg its understanding and its compassion, and when that failed, cold concrete could keep it at bay.
Someone came up from behind me, my wife. I smiled slightly, she must of just gotten the children to go to sleep. So, silently, we gazed out of the window. Gazed out, and knew, we were safe at home.
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By iBrow:
Home
He was old, ancient and withered, with years beyond count having built up to this historic moment.
He slowly hobbled up the path, his rickety wooden twig of a walking stick tap-tap-tapping on the stone.
“Come on old man, let’s ‘urry it up a little bit! We ‘aven’t got all day!”
He huffed, halting in his tracks, and turned to face the speaker. He slowly raised his arm; every single joint cracked as he waved the speaker away before he turned back to the path ahead. He continued to take painstakingly slow steps, so light that he left no imprints upon the dirt.
“Look, if you ain’t gonna ‘urry up, you’ll go over the cliff, you will!”
He rolled his eyes and continued to hobble up the path. One of his knees cracked and he collapsed – with a snapthat echoed through the frigid air, both of his knees shattered upon impact. He grimaced, every wrinkle on his face contorting in pain as he lay upon the ground, writhing in agony.
“Come on, up with you! I’m serious you know, we ‘aven’t got all day! Come on, come on! Let’s get you up! We only got us a few more steps!”
He felt two firm hands grab him by his armpits, felt the tension in each and every finger as the speaker gave a mighty heave and lifted him up off of the dusty, freezing path.
“Come on old man, you ruined my life enough already! Go on!”
He allowed the speaker to drag him the rest of the way up, his ruined feet trailing lightly in the snow. Slowly they began to approach the end of the path, and into his vision flowed the far away images of trees and the forests of days gone by.
“Off with you, then! Go on! Be gone from my sight, you!”
He lurched forward as the speaker gave him one push, and then it was as if he was falling into the abyss, his life and years gone by rushing past him without a sound before….
CRASH!
He felt his spine – along with every other bone in his body – shatter as he crashed through the rotted wooden roof of the hovel he had been born in, and then everything was dark.
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By Peach00:
Tahlonega
The glittering lights dangling in between the bare branches of the trees sufficiently lit the town square. The walkways were accompanied by yellow lights also, not to mention the silver light of the moon. Its snow-white hues danced throughout the town, bathing the plaza with its silver luminosity. Its romantic silhouette was like a mother watching over its child – it was always there, sometimes unnoticed, but always appreciated.
I was walking on the brick walkways, viewing the town sights with my undivided attention – this was one of the last, if not the last time I would see this town in its entirety. From the enormous college campus area to the tiny antiques shop, I had looked at every inch of this town. I had seemed to have gone through all of it over a dozen times by now, but I didn’t care. I would walk until dawn’s gentle fingers would raise the sun from its slumber – by then, I still would hunger for more of the town’s simplistic, country charm.
My eyes traveled from observing the bell-tower roofed with solid gold to the bare grey trees in the center of the square, laced with golden, glimmering lights. Each sight was a breathtakingly beautiful sight, a feast for the eyes. My nose wasn’t exactly missing anything, either – I could smell from a distance the wonderful aroma of baked pizza dough from the pizzeria, Luigi’s.
I heard the sounds of roaring, gas-guzzling cars coming from nearby the college. I could only guess the college students were out and about, but I shrugged it off: There were some points I wouldn’t miss, and that was one of them.
I eyed the black, boundless sky, its velvety look like a blanket covering the Earth. The stars were like shimmering silver eyes, blinking every once and awhile at their observers. As I viewed the night sky, I became lost in it, and as I became lost in it, I realized how much I would miss my hometown: Tahlonega.
I was walking on the brick walkways, viewing the town sights with my undivided attention – this was one of the last, if not the last time I would see this town in its entirety. From the enormous college campus area to the tiny antiques shop, I had looked at every inch of this town. I had seemed to have gone through all of it over a dozen times by now, but I didn’t care. I would walk until dawn’s gentle fingers would raise the sun from its slumber – by then, I still would hunger for more of the town’s simplistic, country charm.
My eyes traveled from observing the bell-tower roofed with solid gold to the bare grey trees in the center of the square, laced with golden, glimmering lights. Each sight was a breathtakingly beautiful sight, a feast for the eyes. My nose wasn’t exactly missing anything, either – I could smell from a distance the wonderful aroma of baked pizza dough from the pizzeria, Luigi’s.
I heard the sounds of roaring, gas-guzzling cars coming from nearby the college. I could only guess the college students were out and about, but I shrugged it off: There were some points I wouldn’t miss, and that was one of them.
I eyed the black, boundless sky, its velvety look like a blanket covering the Earth. The stars were like shimmering silver eyes, blinking every once and awhile at their observers. As I viewed the night sky, I became lost in it, and as I became lost in it, I realized how much I would miss my hometown: Tahlonega.
----------------------
By Nicholas Joseph:
Exit 25
The black strip cuts through the forest of green, and you sail along, eyes focused on the road strips that fly under the side mirror, out of sight and behind as the car sails onward. You push the pedal on, patiently steering along the curve through the green forest.
And then it appears. Above the treetops, out there in the distance, it pops up, if only for a moment. It then disappears, swallowed by the canopy once more.
You press on the gas pedal, excited at the sight that evades you. With the accelerator humming, you weave around the other cars as the parkway sails by, the wind buffeting around the windshield. The thick trees on either bank of the rhode are a blur, gone in the blink of an eye.
The trees break to reveal a grassland, a stream weaving under the overpass and into the distance. The top of the tower appears again, out there in the distance, but one last cluster of trees shields it as your sight is caught by the wetlands; the grass out there is slowly changing from the dead brown of winter to the yellow and green of spring, and only today you just begin to notice it. On the other side of the parkway, the islands can be seen, houses only a small, textured line on the horizon. The ferris wheel can be seen toward the end of the island, and you smile, comforted by the sight. You press the pedal, excited and pleased by the classic skyline of the island you call home, and the car zooms onward.
The horizon is clear now, the trees dissipated, and you can finally see the powerplant, spewing white puffs into the sky. The cloudmaker, you think, as you pass under the toll booth, pretending as you did as a child that it was that grey and blue paneled tower that was responsible for the clouds in the sky.
Adrenaline reaches its peak as you zoom away from the tolls, and join the line of traffic on the bridge, the entire land in full view. The bay reaches out, a long plain of separation between the island and the mainland. You see boats zooming from here to the island, far off, and lean back in your seat, a grin on your face as you feel perfectly at home on this bridge. As the adrenaline fades, you look out the passager window, seeing the bayside bar, its name in bold yellow letters against the woods that nestle it. Maybe you’ll go there tonight.
You get off the parkway, surrounded by a new forest. It is not a long venture however, as you see the exit sign on the side of the inn. Not much more than a half mile off is the exit; as it approaches, and the other cars zoom by, on beyond the overpass, you leave your blinker on as you steer toward the sign that approaches.
Exit 25
--------------------
By Rene/EW:
I’ve often thought about where I belong. In my earlier years, when I was a youth, my parents told me that home was where I could be welcomed no matter what happened. Everything else, I was told, was just a house, a roof over my head, a tract of land between picket fences. What incredible irony it was when I realized the place I had lived in all those years was nothing more than a house. After all, what’s a home if it holds no joy, no cheer, no comfort when one walks into it? There must be a driving force that instills that energy of homeliness in it, right?
I remember sitting on the porch of the house when a policeman handed a letter to my parents. I was but twelve at the time, a girl with dreams of tea and laces and wore saddle shoes and little dresses. A year after we were thrown out of that house, though, I was running, leather boots and jackets being my norm though I still dreamed of tea and lace, only because it was what I didn’t have anymore. They served as a constant, a reminder of what I longed for. We were on the run. Aliens, we were called, thrown out of our country.
Turns out that nation wasn’t my home, either. We weren’t welcomed there, we weren’t wanted, just like how it was for what seemed an eternity. We crossed several borders before we found a new place to live, a new life. We started over again when I was fifteen.
They came again, this time at night, not in copper uniforms but in suits and their message wasn’t in a letter but in a full metal jacket. They shot my father first and then wounded my mother. They didn’t see me under my bed though they did mention me in their conversation. I sprang under my bed and snatched my daddy’s revolver from the dresser, ran through the door and fired blindly at them, tears streaming down my face that sparkled like lava in the yellow flames that danced from my gun. I emptied all the shots and they fell over, and then I joined them in pain, falling like a doll I held in my youth. I had won the battle... but what of the war? The mob was sure to come for me fr what I had done.
I’ve often thought about where I belong. In my later years, as an adult, I know the truth: Home is where I make it.
I remember sitting on the porch of the house when a policeman handed a letter to my parents. I was but twelve at the time, a girl with dreams of tea and laces and wore saddle shoes and little dresses. A year after we were thrown out of that house, though, I was running, leather boots and jackets being my norm though I still dreamed of tea and lace, only because it was what I didn’t have anymore. They served as a constant, a reminder of what I longed for. We were on the run. Aliens, we were called, thrown out of our country.
Turns out that nation wasn’t my home, either. We weren’t welcomed there, we weren’t wanted, just like how it was for what seemed an eternity. We crossed several borders before we found a new place to live, a new life. We started over again when I was fifteen.
They came again, this time at night, not in copper uniforms but in suits and their message wasn’t in a letter but in a full metal jacket. They shot my father first and then wounded my mother. They didn’t see me under my bed though they did mention me in their conversation. I sprang under my bed and snatched my daddy’s revolver from the dresser, ran through the door and fired blindly at them, tears streaming down my face that sparkled like lava in the yellow flames that danced from my gun. I emptied all the shots and they fell over, and then I joined them in pain, falling like a doll I held in my youth. I had won the battle... but what of the war? The mob was sure to come for me fr what I had done.
I’ve often thought about where I belong. In my later years, as an adult, I know the truth: Home is where I make it.
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