Seashells
Fiction by Kurt Kreisler
Originally published in Tangents 1.8
May 1966, pp. 9–10.
A burnt match smells so clean, he thought, as he took the first delicious drag on his bedtime cigarette. The pearl-grey smoke, like a cherished thing, swirled and eddied in the air, caressing his sleepy mind like a lover’s fingers.
I lead such a dreary life, he mused silently, so little time. I wish I could find someone to love!
Oh well. Hell! Someday, I guess…I hope…somehow…
He yawned again and felt himself drifting off into easy slumber so he relaxed, ground out his cigarette and waited. It would surely come again tonight. He knew it would. At first it had been disturbing. Especially the morning after each dream, but now he looked forward to it, like meeting an old, old friend. And loneliness does breed discontent and a desperate craving for friends, either real or phantom. Like rape, if dreams were inevitable, one should enjoy them. So he did!
At first came the dark waters flooding his mind. Deep water, vibrant and alive, caressing a stretch of sand standing barren and white in the glare of a phantom noon-day sun, naked without the footprints of summer crowds.
His breathing deepened in sleep once again as he felt the dampness of a boy’s dark curls resting upon his bare chest, rising and falling, his lungs feasting upon the imaginary brew of salt spray and sunshine. While all around them Time stood quietly by, casting no shadow.
Sand, dry and comforting, scratched his bare back, while high above him was the deep blue of summer skies, the color of Forever. Soaring seagulls, sweeping low and screaming, cast quick silhouettes upon the smooth brown shoulders huddled softly against him.
His partner’s quiet voice, distant and ethereal, drifted over his body in soft fragments, like drops of sweet warm honey, and then darted off into space to blend with the helpless cries of the sea-birds in rhythm to the timeless sounds of the sea.
Slowly, deliciously, savoring their sweetness, the two lovers shared their secrets through lips sharp with the taste of sea-salt and clean summer sweat. Whispered treasures amidst the music of the ocean.
Then very suddenly came the taut anticipation and the bated breath as their two very young, very warm, and very eager bodies, like two coiled springs, touched close, almost timidly. There followed the quick rush and matched movements. The pounding of bass drums, the clash of the cymbals of heaven and hell together until…at last…too soon…the final liquid ecstasy of a day old love, at long last consummated. The sublime fulfillment, as old as mankind, pouring like a heat- ed wine into the empty corners of their bodies. While patiently, as always, the surf, standing watch, crooned her lullaby and whispered in peace.
He awoke with a moan of pleasure and knew that he could sleep no more that night. So tangible and yet so hopeless! If only the lover were real and flesh and blood and would stay with him when the dream was ended. But, of course, he never did.
He lay quietly through the long, slow hours of the dawning And, as the first rays of the cold morning sun crept between the blades of the venetian blinds, he turned onto his side. There on the dresser, as always, was a small sea-shell. It hadn’t been there the night before. It was still wet with salt water as he rose from his bed half in a daze. He wearily opened the top drawer of the dresser and dropped it in carelessly. There must have been a hundred shells there, all of various colors and shapes, crusty with dried salt. He sighed a slow hopeless sigh as he thought of how one shell appeared after each dream.
So be it, he murmured, I must dress for work…after all, I want a lover, not a drawer full of seashells…and hum-drum reality, with almost sadistic pleasure, rushed back into the stream of his lonely existence.
And, as he turned to dress, the empty covers on the bed stirred with an equally hopeless, inaudible sigh…and then lay still and flat once more…
©1966, 2017 by The Tangent Group. All rights reserved.
