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Sazal, the Unrelenting Sun
Her small vessel—adrift and at peace—glided smoothly on the silk-like sea of midday. The guitar strings had been strung to create a melodious wind that pushed on the single sail for two weeks—or perhaps it was six or seven—but her fingers were now sore and the songs exhausted. She lay down with her light-chocolate colored belly facing the sky; bellybutton and sun in zenithal sync. The sun smiled brightly upon her face not knowing that one should never expose such an eager grin to a beautiful woman since they will then know one’s intentions.
I’ve had enough of you, she said covering her face with her guitar. Sing me a song. Where it leads me, I do not care. Tell the moon this as well.
Sunrays rushed the nylon rays on the guitar and began to caress them musically with such a delicate intent that only a light breeze was produced. This, however, was only a sweet prelude. The serenade picked up and with it, so did the gust of winds which proceeded to guide the small raft to a new nowhere much different than the old nowhere.
Did you know that the sound of waves spreading lazily upon a sandy coast is very different than that of waves wrestling upon each other? The guitar knew much of sound but this it did not know. It asked the moon, for it was she who dotted the sky now, if this was true. She said she had never noticed.
Domi relished the feeling of cool, soft sand between her toes. The grains were so refined and light the beach felt like a shallow pool of baking flour. Naturally, as everybody would under such circumstances, she dove into the sand to swim. Flapping around on the beach three feet from the ocean line she looked much like a stranded mermaid. At least she did to Oboe who watched an inconspicuous distance away.
A mermaid!
Oboe had never seen one. He had never even heard of someone who had. If he captured this one he would become a celebrity and everybody knows that girls love celebrities! Eagerly, he grabbed his fish net—he figured it would only be half as effective for she was, after all, only half fish. He skulked expertly towards Domi who was now doing backstrokes in the sand.
Swoosh.
The net entrapped Domi perfectly and Oboe began whistling as he was particularly excited at his success. He then performed a little jig; the type of jig one prepares at home in front of the mirror and wishes, daily, for an opportunity to perform. Domi stood up mostly uninhibited and, with the net still dangling to her midriff, kicked Oboe.
There was pain. There was shame. But worst of all, there were legs; not tailfins, but legs.
“Phony”, yelled Oboe as he scurried back into the predominant wilderness of the island.
Domi stood there, half bedazzled at the oddness of the little man and his ugly mustache. She decided that his mustache was not subjectively ugly since it was so ugly that there is no one in the world that would disagree. Now that that was settled, she observed the man with an objectively ugly mustache run further inland where the sparse houselights and dark, encroaching flora mimicked the stars embedded upon the sky. This sight urged Domi to question the crescent moon: What came first, the stars or man? Without man and his appreciation there is no heavenly purpose for stars to exist. What are stars but the kindling fire of our human love reflected on the celestial mirror?
The moon shrugged. As with most of these types of questions, either others want you to find the answer yourself or they simply do not know it.
And to think I praised the heavens for their artistry when its inspiration has been on earth all along, Domi said attempting to provoke a response as she grabbed her guitar from the beached vessel. The moon simply smiled which meant nothing since crescent moons smile at everything.
Domi decided to give up her query and, with belongings in hand, marched towards the heart of the island.
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