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Lee S. King
The Conch
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"What do you hear?"
"I hear…"
"Well?" the first asked, impatiently.
"Ssh!" his companion demanded in irritation. His face contorted as he concentrated. "I hear…the sea…waves…it sounds lonely…the wind crying…it sounds so far away…"
"Let me try!" his friend said, excitedly.
"Okay. Here."
"It sounds like the sea…only…only the wind isn’t crying, it’s roaring…like it’s mad about something…"
"It sounds like it’s crying to me."
"No, it’s mad."
"About what?"
"I dunno."
The two chubby, dirty-faced imps turned to look out into the water as small waves lapped around their ankles and tried to pull them gently out, stealing the sand from under their feet.
"The ocean doesn’t look mad. It’s so empty. Not even any sailboats. The wind doesn’t have anything to do."
"Maybe that’s why it’s mad."
His friend shook his head, seriously. Their eyes stole across the wide, barren expanse, then turned upward to watch several seagulls circle and dive to the waves.
The birds called out, screaming and wheeling over the beach. The silence, except for the eerie cry of the gulls, and the soft washing of the rolling waves, was complete, and the feeling of lonely isolation crept slowly over the two youngsters.
"I still think it sounds sad and lonely."
"Maybe."
The conch was dropped to the sand, forgotten, as the tykes moved along the beach, their reveries vanished in their haste to pick up some pretty stones and tiny shells deposited by the tide.
© 2002 Lee S. King
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