Lethe

ocean view

 

He pushed his head into the water.

Lethe. Lethe.

His long hair rose in seaweed tendrils to float upon the surface along with the fingers of his hands.

His eyes closed, he felt his feelings attach to the ripples flowing in and out of his ears, becoming part of the liquid and leaving his brain in drops washing out with every ebb.

He dug his naked feet into the sand, willing his toes to grow coral roots and keep him moving only with the water. Pushed backward, pulled forward. Pushed backward, pulled forward.

The sun felt good on his naked back.

He sighed and forgot how to breathe.

 

Sketch

sketch of a face

Sketch via MDE-art.com

“Walks with his buttocks clenched tightly together.” The writer paused to once again scan the people passing and settled on one woman. “Built like an orange on popsicle sticks.” Again, he dipped into the crowd of pedestrians. ” Face as clear as a May morning.” Frowning, he drew a line through it almost before he’d finished writing it. “Too poetic,” he muttered.

He held up his notebook, re-reading the lines of character notes written there and nodded to himself. A good catch, overall. Rising, he tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket and put a few bills on top of the check for his coffee and bagel and slid them under the edge of the mug to hold them. Then he stepped to the door, now eager to get to his keyboard.

As he passed, a young artist, conte pencil poised over a blank page, began to sketch him in broad strokes.