In darkness it stood before him, a sandglass spilling grey-white grains. Its speed flowed erratically, speeding up, slowing down but never ceasing. The sand trickled, then rushed, to the bottom measuring the years until a moment that he could only guess as “now” when the sand slowed to a tiny stream dropping into the mound below. The ever-changing flow continued.
Just as he knew that the person in a mirror was his doppelganger, he knew that this sand represented a life: his life.
“The carnival fortuneteller was wrong,” he thought, “There is plenty of sand in the upper bulb,” but the flow of sand will never cease until time is satisfied.
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The sandcastle, built with elaborate spires, parapets, and battlements to ward off imaginary foes, stood upon the sunny beach well away from the coming tides and ocean flows. The effort that seemed like years to complete was finally capped off with a single red flag on the tallest of the towers.
Shadows fell upon the western castle walls, across the keep and onto the slopes of the eastern talus. The first drops of rain moistened the sand and soon the torrential rains continued throughout the night, aided by the Northeastern winds as threads of lightning filled the skies.
By morning no castle remained. No red flag. No tower where damsels live. No battlements for defense. Only a mound to mock the builder’s folly.
The builder fell to his knees in silence, not to mourn, but to build again…
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The prisoner’s hands were clasped to a bar to keep them apart along with bindings on each finger to keep them separated. The guards prodded him until he stood next to a sand-filled cone that opened about chest high. The warden announced, “If you can carry a pound of sand to the scales, you will be set free.”
The prisoner held his hands out as the sand poured through his fingers and he imagined that he would fail his test just as every prisoner failed before him. He smiled to the warden and dropped under the opening to fill his mouth. With bulging cheeks, he quietly walked to the scale to spit out his pound of sand.
Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Friday Writings #34: Unsavory Topics
I like the optimism in both these pieces. To build again despite the loss and to be so clever as to carry a pound of sand without the use of hands.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Penelope. These started as metaphors and I pushed them a little further
DeleteA sure measure of a poem. Enjoyed.
ReplyDeleteThanks for dropping by my blog today. Thanks for your good wishes
Much💚love
Thank you, Gillena. I hope you feel better soon.
DeleteWonderful! And such a subtly told progression from inevitable doom, through hopeful renewal, to triumph.
ReplyDeletePure accident, Rosemary. I'm glad you liked it
DeleteThis is wonderful. Read it as if I was witnessing all these...!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Sreeja. I'm glad you liked it
DeleteBelief, choice, freedom... Love what you've woven here through the prism of sand... excellent.
ReplyDeleteI wasn't using the words as a guide but it just worked out that way. Thank you, Rajani.
DeleteThese are great lines in a writing that absolutely satisfy:
ReplyDelete' the flow of sand will never cease until time is satisfied'
'the builder fell to his knees in silence, not to mourn, but to build again'
'with bulging cheeks, he quietly walked to the scale to spit out his pound of sand'
Sometimes words come together. Thank you, Helen. I'm glad these came together for you
DeleteEnjoy all the short stories about choice, belief and freedom. I like the theme of sand binding the 3 stories. :)
ReplyDeleteI really like the vivid descriptions. And even more, I love the cleverness and resolve of the prisoner.
ReplyDeleteI could see those bulging cheeks.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite lines are the same as Helen's.