Thaddeus Welch (the night in fruition)

This collaborative short story originally appeared in Alstroemeria issue #5. I always liked it, and thought that it was time for a little resurrection of sorts. Schuyler Feekes and I both composed this back in 2000 during a strange night in a small shack/cabin in Stinson Beach, California. The cabin had a name, Thaddeus Welch, and Schuyler and I speculated that it had some sort of past life, much different than its current incarnation. Read on.

Dusk, sea in background, the great Pacific, brooding, ominous, and vast as ever. Waves bash against the shore. The shore not far, just down below the ridge, the water cascades there, rushes into the sand - fine granules, millions upon millions, never counted, and how should he know? He never stopped to count them, they just fell off his surface and into the rest. He moved slowly in this twilight hour, not really knowing where to go, but somehow knew where he was supposed to be.
If he were to add granule upon granule life may dwindle, his at least, for time was of the essence and these little details were better saved for when movement ceases. Being at an area stopping to enjoy the sublime alpenglow while brown pelicans hover above and dive into the icy Pacific, eventually coming up with food and sustaining life. He always knew, somehow, that his wandering would only last for so long, and it always came when he least expected it. Between something and nothing lies everything. Suddenly, he realized that he was making too much sense, thinking much too much when he should just be moving. It was not his fault - it had been so long - and he was just like everyone else during these times. These excursions forced him to believe in the banality of his existence, his reality was void of any 'true emotion', but the sensations were there - moving, thinking, feeling - but really it was just the basics, the simple act of just living - sometimes good, sometimes bad, hungry, tired, happy, sad. This all really didn't matter because he was a shell of some sort, brought to life by this swirling seaside with salty ocean air thick with moisture that would sustain him for a while. As long as he kept moving he figured his lifeless mass of still-form now beckoning to thrive would keep going, somehow.
Knowing the cold as some might, feeling skin and private areas move and shrink. The moisture ridden air remained still and heavy, night was falling, night was coming soon, and the cold would set in even worse. Thoughts ran through his head - kill, run, hide, behave, accept, ride away. Trying to set the mind on the here and now and not let what was to come bother him too much - no easy task - but he managed to sustain a temporary comfort. His path was laid out there in front of him, along the wet edge of an immense body of water. He trudged along as sand, broken glass, and miniscule pebbles passed slowly through toe-gaps. He was morphing into some biological mutation, becoming more of an animal than ever before, more human with every step. He was enjoying this strange time in his life, lingering time, because he was now able to focus clearly on what was happening.
The night carried on and slowly began to transition into day. Some velvet dawn brings on the new mist, such that it consumes his movements and his time in this moment is ceasing. He is starting to feel his nerves fray, as if all sensation is leaving, all that which he enjoyed for this short stray was leaving much too fast. This time cannot be placed anywhere, so temporal, so shifty. Half the world asleep in dreams too incalculable to measure. Hazy dawn of waking - still moving before full arrest of day consumes his life, his life now moving.
This time he was sad, for it would be another hundred or so years before he would get the chance to manifest again. Still so much to do, so much to see, love lost but never found. He found something here, at least he moved for awhile, and saw things through unbroken eyes not glazed over from relentless years on the shore - too much sun, sand, wind, and time...his time was expiring as this new day was beginning. One last look around. Time thin, day coming. All thoughts expiring. Movement of shadows now apparent in morning light, coming over him, looming like some ominous storm. He stoops, he sinks, he moves to escape - not fast enough.
Still life on a beach, a shell, some young boy passing by picks it up and puts it in his pocket. It's a souvenir, a token of this place, this time. Somewhere all the shells move back to the sea.