East Fork:
A Journal of the Arts
Just off Ocean Boulevard in the southern state of South Carolina the boardwalk smoothly turns to sand so as to discretely disappear into the beach. This is an area of liveliness, a majestic mound of minerals where people gather like ants on a freshly cut strawberry; where condominiums take the forms of far away forests the father down you gaze and, beautifully, with a ceaseless drive, waves crash and recoil. At times a miniature flash occurs on the horizon of the sea, a distant storm that can’t even be heard by the smallest mouse perched on the pier, and pulls your thoughts into the depths of the nautical night.
Below the starless sky and sea, which lies awake through the night, your focus is averted to the line of Mr. Bill Marlin, who slouches on his bench eager to hook a fish of some kind. His pole is lengthy and thick, and is held in his gnarly grasp below his weather-beaten beard. It appears that he had been sitting there for several hours waiting for something to show up at the end, and his pole, bent a little reflecting the weights of the fishes that had come before, was motionless. You see his potbelly placed upon his lap, and know that despite his rugged appearance, he is well fed, and wisdom radiates from him like sunrays. Waves crash into the pier, causing the structure to sway slightly, suggesting an eerie feeling.
The condominiums are set in a winding row along the boardwalk and when the sun begins to set in the evenings, the moon has appeared and pulls people out of their rooms with almost as force as it pulls the tides. I have traveled there each summer since the month of my birth, and because of this summer ritual, I met Daniel for the first time.
He and I have since kept the tradition of traveling there year after year, as we are together now. We headed toward the boardwalk after becoming bored watching Mr. Marlin be unsuccessful with his fish tonight. The air smelled of salt, barbeque, and roasted almonds. Wanderers pass us as we make our way down the paved part of the block, the ocean front property in which a skyscraper has yet to clutter the space where the beautiful body can be seen by all. Small black bugs scurry toward the sand as our heavy feet thump the boards they often call home.
In the distance we could hear a band playing on the lawn; shag music reverberated off of every vertical wall in the vicinity. I twirled out onto the square signaling for Daniel to follow. We set this trend, as many others joined in. The band smiled as the crowd expanded, and at the end of that song requests spurted off the lawn like the lights from a sparkler on the fourth of July. Many clutched their drinks and tilted their talking heads toward one another. The women were scantily clad in two-piece swimsuits and transparent dresses with stylish, thin flip-flops on their feet. Men wore knee-length khaki shorts and plain light colored long-sleeved tees. Some wore no shirt at all. Their larger sandals adorned with two large buckles each hung from the railing of the walk way for the sand would likely resist washing out these compared to the thin, seamless shoes upon the dainty feet of women.
At the end of the beachfront concert, fireworks were launched from the sand and exploded in the sky like turbo-charged shooting stars. Almost every color of the rainbow was represented at this time. In contrast of a soft, faint rainbow painted across the sky that lasts for more than a moment, these fireworks were erotic, and could be missed in sight by the blink of an eye; however, they could be heard clearly by even a man such as Mr. Marlin, who is ninety percent deaf. Glowing embers of what once housed the fireworks tumbled lightly to the earth, as more clouds filled up the night sky much like popcorn does to a bag as kernels pop. The air smelled of burning cardboard, masking the calm sea-scented air from once before.
At eleven we decided to return home and selected the sand over the boardwalk because the tide was low and we were only wearing sandals. The beach had dispersed leaving only the waves, the dunes, and us, such that the only sounds to be heard were swishing leaves and the roar of the mighty ocean. The cold wet sand pressed against my toes and the breeze chilled my back and blew my hair a bit. The moon glittered along the water, and dozens of seagulls clucked and swooped over the pier entrance.
The once alive shaved ice stand had been since closed up for the evening, with the brightly colored umbrella no longer remaining outdoors. Maintenance workers ambled like ghosts around the pool deck with their brooms and trashcans, and the lights of the reservation office had gone out. It sometimes feels as though the earth’s a candle, burning, melting into a new form, and shrinking around the wick as the sun, the candle’s flame, is full of light. When the sun is gone, the earth is as if it has been blown out, ceases to move, and the only light left is that of the moon that softly glows like embers often do after a fire has been put out.
Puffy clouds masked the stars, and gorgeous magnolia blossoms scented the path, and were illuminated by the light of the moon. We rinsed our feet of the sand and salt residue, and the rushing water was as warm as the lap that sits a plump cat. We entered the condo, changed into suitable clothing, and echoes of shag music replayed in my head. We were feeling in the mood for food, so I fixed Daniel a grilled cheese sandwich and myself lemonade. We snacked while we watched the news before bed, and soon fell victim of sleep’s ship, our recent thoughts trailing in the wake.
The World , a Candle, The Sun, its Flame
By: Kody Blankenship