Memoria - The Man

Memoria - Page 39

Introduction of The Man

Simple things are funny things. But predictable things are not funny things. Does simple always mean predictable? The world is simple. The world is predictable. The world is funny. The world is insipid. Is that hypocrisy? Is that duality? Still predictable. The sky is still behind the clouds. There is water at the bottom of the ocean. The tides are going to fall. The moon will rise. The earth will turn. Night will come. Waves will crash.

—To see the world in a grain of sand.

The brambly voice cut through The Boy's reverie. Neither shocked nor frightened, The Boy turns to the owner of the voice that resembles glass being crushed by a metal rolling pin. The Boy's cool gaze meets with a pair of eyes cut from glacier ice. The eyes pierce The Boy's normally hard gaze with their own ferocity. There is no malice, but an intensity that could make Santa Clause celebrate Kwanza. Underneath those optomic missiles, lies a wide, boyish grin set within a thick, salt-and-peppered beard that sits flush on cheekbones chiseled with a hacksaw. The wind rifles through the jet black hair that ripples in waves from his forehead to the base of his neck.

The Man moves with deliberate agility and slides down to sit on the red rock next to The Boy. The Man and The Boy sit in utter silence watching the waves crash against the beachhead and the faint silhouette of the sun rise higher behind the cloud cover. The Boy slowly turns to look at the strange man who sits stoically beside him, slightly out of place with his surroundings yet fitting in perfectly.