i stand on the sand. right where the ocean begins to lap the beach. the water barely brushing my toes before receding back to its depths only to repeat the endless process.
i stare out at the horizon and think, there’s another world out there. there’s another origin, another culture, other communities. i’ve felt stuck here lately. as if there are ropes attached to the bottoms of my feet keeping me grounded. allowing me no more than a few feet worth of circumference from where they’re rooted deep beneath the earth.
i look down at my feet. damp sand clings to them. i lift them one at a time and feel that invisible rope tugging them back, as if to say Nope!.
i stare again out across the water. i’d jump in and swim there. i think to myself. i’d swim to those other worlds. to find those other origins, other cultures. i’d really do it.
i trace my forefinger across the crimson ink buried beneath the skin on my left arm – there’s adventure out there – it reads, delicate script written between the fletchings and the head of an arrow. i trace it, all the away across the inside of my forearm and follow through the forefinger on the same arm.
an arrow, my self, pointing to the adventure that is out there.
the ocean laps up again, barely brushing my toes. the tide is receding, as high gives itself away to low, i follow it.
Saturday Stories: A (weekly) feature on PrudyChick.com. All stories are written by Prudence Landis [unless otherwise noted as a guest post]. Photo credit: Prudence Landis
