I’m so happy, I feel like writing parts of this in Mandarin. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to put the tone signs on the words with an English keyboard; this escapes my moderately tech-savvy skills. Nor do I know the pinyin for every word to be used. Woe is me. But I am glad to have reached 30 posts! I’ve been blogging for 2 months and 1 week as of today and I’m surprised to have gotten this far. I’m also ridiculously happy to have the readers I do! So thank you everybody! 8000 views and 187 followers; hopefully we still have a long journey yet. 😀 I will leave you with this further story excerpt if you deign to read it (don’t worry if you’ve not read the previous ones, they’re all rather stand-alone.)
Whenever the rain comes down like ink, he remembers when he was a boy. Sea spray and sea salt and sand in places new to you. Shrivelled bits of wood, blackened and shrunken by fire until they resembled the gnarled hands of some old, dead woman. The ravenous fire your father told you not to play with. The cry and pain and rebuke when you did.
The sea was always cold and dark and dead and inviting. Dried up starfish and black seaweed. Swimming out. Choking on driftwood and flotsam and saltwater, the current dragging you to the depths of damnation. Being pulled up again towards the dead grey sky, to more rebuke and the salvation you didn’t ask for.
Sometimes, he remembers other things, older things. Dead faces of dead people, the broken parts of broken things. He hears the promises that never were on the radio, sees the memories on the news. The pain is like ice. And he never forgets that he is a god and gods never die and a tragedy is always a tragedy.