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"SSC2: Memories"

The sails stopped spinning long ago.
Before I can remember, before anyone can remember.
But, in my heart, the old mill remains a safe place.

The path from the village creeps around through these woods. At the only fork, one branch weaves up towards the salt spray, the sun-drenched cliffs and the warmer memories.
I take the second path.

Something tells me - today is a day for strengthening my world.
And I need that, to help me stay here, in my memories.
I’ve walked long enough along the welcome cliffs, breathing in the heady air. The gorse-strewn slopes are perfection - flowers starting to bloom, and butterflies staying at the edge of the sharp slope. Then the pink granite cliffs cut away, down and under, plunging into the sea - the waters that breathtaking blue, sparkling cheerfully in the beaming sun.

And under the cliffs, a narrow strip of sand.
That path is not open today - not forgotten, or erased - though my footsteps still scar that secret beach. I cut off that path long ago - between the cool blue sea, and the warm pink cliffs - though it still helps me.
The vivid memory of the glorious day keeps me ready, and is always at hand, to snap me back.
I wonder if they’re missing me.

Even though I long for the sun, I won’t go that way - the beach, or the cliffs.
Today my memories need a shoulder. This world, my only place away from pain, needs a chair to rest in.

Imagine the sun - yes, my mind still lingers there - imagine it, golden light raining onto the cliffs. You know, that perfect day - when the sun is warm and fresh (not hot and stale, like those torturous nights, back in the real). And it tingles along your arm, and bubbles inside - repairing all those aching wounds, pulling you away ... away ...
Then the breeze - heavy with salt, and the sweet fragrance of the gorse flowers - sweeps across you, and you just have to stop. Stop the ever walking, and breath it in - as deep as you can, until your lungs can take no more. And you slip further from your moorings.

But, with a sigh, today I will not see the sun, nor feel the breeze.
My feet drag down the second path. The cliffs are heaven - but I know, heaven can’t sustain this world. In heaven, you start to fade - away from everything, or back into the real.

No, today I must gaze again upon the place.
Where the sails stopped spinning long ago.

The path rises up, out from the woods, into the hills.
And on that certain hill - the one bound and cut by the path - sits the old mill. The sight is enough most days - just to see it, sitting silently, rotting gently under steely skies.
I’ve never seen inside, or ever wanted too. The sight is enough most days - just to see it creaking in the still, gazing out over the hills.

Today ...
Today is different.
But it would be, otherwise you’d not be here. Don’t worry, I understand. If it was the same, it would be just like the first day I came here and saw and left again, restored - and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than witness every day the same.

No, no, it’s fine.
Come on - it’s time to remember.

And I see, as my feet creep around the path, which creeps around the hill, the door is open.
It has always been locked before - although the rotten wood would break easily enough.
But that’s not the point. That’s never been the point - the point was to repair my world, not destroy it.

It’s quite complicated, I know - it took me months to get used to it. But now everything is governed by my feelings.
I can feel when things are slipping, or when there’s enough energy left for the cliffs. And today I need to gaze upon the old mill. To retain, and rebuild, and remember all the memories that sustain me.

Next to the mill, at the risk of sounding like that girl, sits a quite curious thing.
It has always been here - but is not part of my memories. Is not part of my world.
And it jars with something inside of me - yet this jarring is what helps me to retain, so I welcome it.

It’s a round stone well.
Built from the same grey granite (not the luscious pink of the cliffs) as the mill - and connected on to it, right next to the open door.
Quite large, and quite deep. Exact dimensions are always hard to describe. But I’m sure you understand.

And it’s full of water.
Not the cool, restless water of the sea. Nor the gentle, ripping water of the stream.
But the still, crystal water of the well.

Now I’m sure the water should be stagnant by now - but it’s not my well, so I can’t really say.
But at the bottom, perfectly visible through the shining water is a scatter of coins.
Again - not my coins.
Coppers, mostly - some silver dashed around - but mostly coppers. This is what intrigued me - as nothing points to it, no sign names a wishing well.
But someone, that first someone, must have made a decision - and flipped a coin into the water.
I know not why.
Perhaps just for the sound - that luscious, deep, all-consuming sound - as the coin slides through the water. Then they walked away, a gentle smile on their lips, the strings loosened just a little.

Then more follow - set apart from my memories - and flip a coin into the water.
They give a nod to the old mill, flick their caps back on their heads, and walk off over the hills.

I’ve never flipped in a coin.
Mostly because its not my well. Who knows what might happen, if I make it more real than it is now. And I need it, to retain what is mine, and keep me here - so am, you understand, reluctant to disturb what is keeping me here, away from the real.

The village has a well, too.
And a sign - boldly announcing that the well is for wishing.
But I’ve seen the shadow there, as I slipped back into the torturous nights - a shadow scooping up the riches from from green-tinged water, grinning as he did so.
Stealing away the wishes.
A bad memory.

Oh yes; the door is open.
And the sun peeps through a gap in the cloud (as it always does, when I’m here) - and instead of glancing off the brass door handle, the beam falls to the floor and illuminates there a golden coin.

This is not my coin, either. I cannot remember a coin.
But, I suppose, I never looked inside the mill. So it may have been there.
Although that still doesn’t change the fact: I cannot remember a coin.

The gold - dulled now that the sun has sneaked back behind the clouds - is very much like the sand. That twinkling, golden sand, the stretches out under the cliffs.
I remember the sand.
The coin is not so unfamiliar.

I reach down to pick it up - wary not to step inside the mill, lest I disturb the memories.
And as my finger touches the gold, a faint glimmer of a breeze strokes the back of my neck. It has always been still here - deathly still, under the sails. Change.

The coin is warm, just like the beach - the sun has boiled up the cliffs, and that heat spills out again, burning up the sand. It is wonderful, in bare feet, as you sink into the gold - if you can pull away from the tugging ropes.

And on the coin is a single tear.
It may be a raindrop - but I do not remember any rain.
I remember tears. And I wonder if they miss me.

The well I do not remember.
The coin I do not remember.
This breeze, I do not remember.

Maybe I just forgot. Like I have everything else - everything else that I cannot sustain by gazing at the old mill, where the sails stopped spinning long ago.
And gently, my mind slips back, back into the grasping ropes and twirling stems.

I remember the laughter.
And I remember others - I am so lonely here, in my memories.
I remember that glorious day, under the cliffs, when the tide swept in too fast.

The salt spray burns in my nostrils, and I flip the gold coin into the well.
And I walk away from the mill, towards those worn, wooden steps, leading down to the beach.
Time to forget.
Time to fade.

The breeze gains strength, and rips through the hills.
The sails, long-stopped, groan into action.

Feel free to wonder in my memories - keep them as you will.
But do not be afraid to forget, flip a coin into the well, nod your thanks to the old mill and wander along your way.

I do not think I will see this place again.

erm... were they always yellow i thought they were blue like reveiws.

Haha

YES!!

Go homie :P

This won GAD.

up

I seem to have slipped into the abstract, and found it suits me better.
Thankee children.

I forgot to include sails in my story, damn.

I really liked this, same as the last thing you wrote. Whats with being all talented lately?

:-o

Crap

Hey you, stop being so good
;)

Descriptive and poignant.
Loverly.