Sea of Ash and Sorrow
by Michael KellySince that day in New York, that day of gray ash and sorrow, when it rained white dust, he'd been looking. There was a black hole in him. Parts of him were missing. He'd lost something. Maybe everything.
He searched amid the ruins, picking through the dust-covered detritus, shambling through empty office buildings and dark corridors as the fine dust coated him in a gritty film. He was moving through a sea of ash. A sea of ash and sorrow. A ghost-white specter moving among the dead.
Gradually, under the weight of his dust and ash cloak, he found clues, fragments of a puzzle: a piece of dry driftwood, a red plastic toy sailboat, silver-green fish scales. Memories stirred, danced like seaweed in a vast verdigris ocean.
Montauk!
As a child he visited Montauk. He'd walk the beach, collecting seashells and driftwood. He'd eat stale hotdogs and watch the blue-green surf; breathe in the heady, briny air. He'd sit and watch the white-capped waves, listen to their dark call - phlup... phlup - wonder about their languid pull.
The sea held him in thrall. The sea frightened him.
A memory bubbled up: A girl, bleach-blond hair, hazel eyes, alabaster skin, and a quicksilver smile. A day at the beach. Laughter and sun and cold Coca-Cola. Hot sand and blue, blue sky. An electric kiss behind the refreshment stand. She pulled away, slipped into the sea, swam out farther and farther, beckoning.
He stood rigid, watching her blond hair bob above the waves. Watching her turn, wave. He was mute, frozen, unable to do anything but stare at her receding form. He blinked, and she was gone. Gone.
As if she never existed.
He'd been searching for her ever since.
He held the memory, wouldn't let it sink to the dark depths of his mind, began to walk.
Mile after mile after gray mile, he marched. The cloak of ash weighed upon him. The gritty gray film of dust rubbed his skin raw. Penance. He thought of the sea, the cold obsidian waves, wondered if they would wash him clean like holy water.
On he walked. Cresting a hill, the sea came into view: a roiling, dark thing. The bone-white finger of beach kept it at bay. He moved across the sand, stood at the shore, peered at the horizon.
Nothing. The sea was vast, empty.
He took a tentative step. Then another. Another. The water was cold comfort. Unafraid, he swam. The ash washed off. Legs kicking, arms pumping, he churned through the brackish water. He looked back. The beach was gone. Like everything. So he swam and swam, until his arms complained, until his legs grew heavy, until his spirit weakened. Until he began to slip under and gulp down water, drifting down, down. With a final, resolute push, he heaved up.
And there she was.
Her blond hair fanned out in the water. He smiled, reached for her, held her close. And kissed her blue, blue lips.
©Michael Kelly
Michael is a fiction editor at ChiZine. His tales have appeared, or soon will, in a number of venues, including Alone on the Darkside (Roc/NAL), Dark Arts (Cemetery Dance), Flesh and Blood, The Book of Dark Wisdom, Lone Star Stories, and H.P. Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror.