Saturday, March 3, 2012

Timed Writing: 3/3/2012

Time: 10 minutes
Source photo: Stones by Johanna Blankestein

"There's another cairn over here!" Philip shouted, despite the mere twenty feet separating him from Andreas.

Philip always employed vocalizations of excessive volume for a situation. In church, he whispered his criticisms of the sermon with enough sibilant force to enlighten the congregation in a six-sinner radius. In the espresso shop on the corner, he characterized the pedestrians passing the open windows in tones that carried to the far side of the alley. The pigeons and stray cats looked up, annoyed; the targets of his attention made great show of ignoring him.

Here, isolated on this baren beach, where the two men had spent the past fourteen hours, walking, waiting, arguing, despairing, and hoping anew, Philip's voice cut through the sea breeze and crashing of breakers to find that narrow band of Andreas's auditory reception that most nearly equate to physical pain. It was the range normally reserved for the wailing of tortured babies and the yowling of distraught animals.

"I'm right here," Andreas said, very quietly. He wished to be anywhere else -- or to be exactly where he was, but with anyone else.

"Of course you are," Philip yelled, even louder than before. "Where else would you be? But look here! Somebody else has been here! This cairn wasn't here three hours ago!"

(about my timed writing exercises)

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