Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Resting Point

I rest. My toes unclench and my shoulders slump, as my mind slows and I wind down to a gradual stand-still. I have been running for years. I run on water. I have been sprinting laps around the ocean for the past millennium, with no end in sight. But today, I stopped.

I remember. The memories are faint now; there is not much remaining to think about. When you have no new stimulation for as long as I have, you tend to wear out your memories.

My favorite memory is that of a little girl in a white pinafore, hiding behind her mother as I rode past in the police car. I remember the little girl, mostly because of her beautiful red hair that stood out so flagrantly against the clean, white, sterile house she inhabited. It was the only beautiful thing I would see for years.

I remember when I rode past that place again that I looked for that girl. She had been on my mind. But she was gone by then.
And then, the world ended. I ran.

I try to remember the moment I began running. I try to remember the stepping off, the beginning time. The first few years of running must have been the worst. Why don't I recall?

As I think harder, a vague blur flashes before me. I recall the wonder of walking on the water. I began on a beach; a beautiful beach with palm trees and lush flowers. The water was a clear, true, knowing blue. I looked down, and could see my own feet below me.

While I think, I feel a tingle come to my face as though I am blushing. How is that possible?

I remember the years I spent in the prison before the end. I remember. We were only married for a few years before it ended. Did I ever really get to know him? What was his name?

I suppose it doesn't matter anymore.

I stop thinking.

I am still, for the first time in a very, very long time. My feet and legs are still and my mind is calm, and empty. I begin to sink.

I don't mind. I think it's time I finished with all of this. My lax toes and ankles submerge themselves in the sparkling sea water. The water is freezing.

I stretch my arms far above my head, push off of nothing, and dive in. My extended fingers break the surface first, puncturing the still, serene mirror that the ocean has become. My face plunges into the frozen expanse next. My sensitive eyelids feel the soft chilled daggers of the water molecules bouncing off of them like a drum. My body enters the water as smoothly as a dolphin. My still, tired legs and feet come last, following silently for once.

I am under. I look up to the surface, but all that remains of my world is a frozen, black, mirrored expanse of nothing but the sea, and the sky.

I close my eyes and I rest.

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