On another note, the following is part two (out of three) of my award winning short story Barcelona, in which our heroes discover themselves in the stars of a clear Spanish sky.
Barcelona. Originally composed October 22, 2006
“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.” William Shakespeare
Back on the beach, they sat at the edge of the sidewalk. The boy’s feet were buried halfway in the sand and he played with the gritty texture between his toes. Down in the water, Alex played in the sea like a little child, his laughter rang up and down the beachfront for no one but this small group of students, these strangers in a dead city, to hear. “He’s daft,” the boy couldn’t help but smile at his peers. “He’s a hero,” Lara said, smiling in turn. The boy laughed in spite of himself, “A hero is a 20 year old kid playing in his boxers in the sea at 12:30 in the morning?” “He’s completely free,” she answered solemnly and the boy thought upon such things.
Sometime later, for the night was truly beyond hours at this point, that strange and clumsy time between night and morning where the simple fact of being awake renders useless any understanding of numerical time. It simply was. It was at that point that she turned and looked him in the eyes. He had been watching his feet as they moved sand about and then moved it back, but the suddenness of her movements made him look up and meet her gaze. Fortunately for the boy, it was at this point that time froze and he was able to take in the wonder of the girl seated next to him on a beach in Spain. He took this opportunity, one of those increasingly rare moments where the world is paused before one’s very eyes, to observe this object of his most recent affections. The boy took in first those eyes, almond shaped and brown, encapsulating all the earth, rich and fruitful beyond understanding. They held in them a secret wisdom, a hidden message, some sort of forbidden intelligence that looked out upon the world outside and said “I know more than you and I always will”. It was the same look that had always been in the boy’s eyes and he was pleased to see them reflected in another face. Her face was round and soft with a prominent nose and olive skin that hinted at a obscurely middle-eastern lineage, one that may have been long diluted or indeed, one that had never existed at all except in the fantasies and speculations of a young boy. Her long black hair, tied in a ponytail curved gently into the shape of a heart behind her head. She was not particularly beautiful, but neither was the boy and nonetheless he was captured by the aura of exquisiteness that she exuded.
The world unpaused just in time and the boy heard her ask him, with all earnestness and curiosity, “What is your dream?” They had known each other just over a day and they spoke without fear. Perhaps it is the knowledge of such ephemeral moments that loosens one’s tongue and frees the topics of discussion with another. Perhaps it is the unconscious, spiritual recognition of two people that they are not, nor have they ever been, truly strangers that allows such frankness. I like to believe it’s the latter. Nonetheless he delved into his heart, spoke of those dreams and fears that he had spoken only once before but had filled the cavity of his mind for so many years. The boy spoke with some trepidation at first, not sure if this was what Lara had wanted, her kind smile reassured him and he found himself speaking with that confidence that had made his eloquence famous for years. The boy was a born pessimist and was quick to dismiss those dreams of his, those that for the first time ever were tasting the air of a world outside the walls of his mind, he laid himself bare on that beach and single-handedly picked away at the foundations of his own spirit. And yet, Lara was there, and she took the whole matter in with an assured smile. That kind of smile that gave the feeling of assurance and understanding and she repaired those foundations with that smile. He smiled back and said, “Its just a dream.” It was right there that she looked away from him in a slow, thoughtful manner; she looked out at the slowly churning waves of the Mediterranean sea as it breathed in and out and then turned her gaze up at the stars above. Quietly, as if merely breathing the words she told the boy, “Dreams are not intangibles, imagined and inconsequential. Dreams are avenues towards very real things.” For days he would ponder those words.
After some time, for time had lost all bearing on the night, indeed it seemed to the boy that the night would continue on forever, the stars would never fade away into a blue sky and the sea would never return to its clear blue-green state, if merely the two of them refused to yield up the night to the day, after some time the two of them laid down upon the sand, their heads pillowed uncomfortably on the edge of the concrete street behind them. They laid there in the sand and looked up at the heavens. The boy pointed out what may have been Orion. “That’s Cassiopeia,” Lara said and pointed somewhere else, “The one that looks like a “w”.” The boy smiled. “There’s a shooting star,” she said. He began to reply but she cut him off saying, “Quiet, I’m making my wish.” She shut her eyes and smiled. The boy quieted, then laid his head back down. After a moment she looked up again, “Did you make a wish?” She asked. “No, I didn’t see the shooting star.” The boy answered honestly. “That’s alright, I’ll share my wish you.” She said. The boy smiled again.
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