Monster, monster, hairy, tall
Madman, madman, hear my call
Green and ugly, keep your distance
If I hurt you, no resistance
A lanky, sinewy figure looms in the bay, shoveling sand. Wearing a head of seaweed for a wig, it digs, digs, and digs its heart out. Is it searching? Is it playing? A strange exercise.
“Monster, why are you digging? The sand will just fill in tomorrow. How can you build a sandcastle when you just throw it all to the side?”
The timid lump who called out to Monster isn’t keeping enough distance. Why does it infringe? It should know Monster is dangerous.
“Little lump, little lump. If you must know, I’ve been here many years, finding seeds others sew. For I was once alone, cold, and left in the sand. I’m here wearing seaweed, getting hurt, getting tanned.”
“But why,” Lump demanded, her voice growing loud. She’d need to know the answer, when her head was thick and proud. “When the tide will take your effort, and the sand will stay the same, you choose to stand your toil. Is it just some kind of game?”
“Look at the sky. The clouds. Those clowns can go to other towns, but here they show their face. They’ll surely go some other where, but now they share our space. It may be toil digging soil, that much can be true. But when you’ve seen what I have seen, there’s just so much to do. If anyone were stuck down there like once I was before, I’d shovel deep, I’d shovel hard, despite my arms made sore.”
The Lump then saw how Monster loved– a savior on the shore. He’d break his bones on tiny stones until he broke his core. He really cared, he really dared, he really tried his best. A sweet idea, and she pressed her hand against his chest. She thought of kindness, thought of hope, she wished on happy lifeline rope. She thought of cherries, laughing times, cheerful monkeys swinging vines. As when these thoughts come racing through, his knotted chest would show it too. A red umbrella was growing through.
A boy lowers an unbound collection of pages, previously levitating before his face, and sandwiches them with two planks of driftwood. The uneven etchings in its covers read My Monster. As the faces of his new peers were further alight than a pumpkin in October, his eyes drifted from those classmates to the parents in the back.
“Well, that was a nice story. See, Madison,” A mother nudges her child with the edge of a boot. “We could have brought Shel Silverstein all along. He’s great, right?”
The quiet girl fidgeted, and padded the back of her skirt. No dirt, thankfully. He’d seen her somewhere before. Last week, in the grocery store. She was the girl who wanted avocados. They weren’t ripe yet, and got in trouble for bringing them to the checkout anyway.
Lighting up, the boy offered, “Shel Silverstein’s great, avocado girl! I mean, Madison.”
Avocado girl, I mean, Madison flashed a confused smile. She felt the kindness in his voice, but didn’t see anyone in costume today. A reserved chuckle rippled in the older audience. Did they know who avocado girl was? Was she real after all? What an incredible world.
“Well, Tyson, thank you for your reading. Tell the class who wrote your book, won’t you?” The teacher added.
“Ah-! I wrote it,” Tyson beamed. He was excited to have finally completed his book last month. His parents were still talking to publishers, but he had faith it would work out.
The elders in the back splashed with laughter. It perplexed Tyson, and reminded him of when his father came home with a monkey vest as a gift.
“Teacher, can I go for a walk,” Tyson hoped.
“No, Tyson. Wait until recess. Okay, can I have all the parents come to the front? We need to talk about the syllabus changes.”
He felt the breeze beckoning through the dog door. It greeted him in a familiar, gentle friendliness, and without a thought, he put his book down to answer the call.
The dust swirled under his sandals, as if to welcome each step in its light embrace. He loved the earth more than anything. Even when cast aside by the fickle whims of those around him, he could always depend on his own two feet and the ground.
Grabbing a stick by the fence, he drew a line in the dirt as he wandered away. Swirling, whirling, spinning, and curving, he danced a slow meander to organize his thoughts.
As the dirt turned into grass, little Tyson had drawn a path to his favorite tree; a massive Japanese maple on a plateaued meadow overlooking the shore. Its red leaves against the cloudy sky, painted a haven just for him. Whenever he needed to remember who he was, he found comfort against its trunk.
Sitting there with his back pressed against his protector, he felt the rain despite its leaves and branches.
“Maybe I’m not good enough yet. What if I started over again? What if I tried harder, and wrote more?”
He grabbed the lowest bough, and pulled.
“Ahh! And now it’s raining! I hope that boy’s safe.”
It was the avocado girl herself, Madison.
“Leave! You’re not welcome here,” Tyson stood firm.
Her eyes adjusted to the shade she flung herself into, a rain shelter proving a new source of hostility.
“Are you…? You’re that boy!
“Tyson! My name’s Tyson!”
Madison recoiled from a sudden strike of correction.
“Sorry,” Tyson softened, “I called you the wrong name too… Hey! You know why I came here? It’s a safe place. A place where I can watch the world without it watching me. I know I was mean, but, would you join me?”
The little girl dipped her chin, trying to hide a smile. They sat together, under the red canopy. There, they listened to the leaves, the rain, the wind… and watched the sea in the distance.
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I’m taking a flash fiction course, so I had to write an arbitrary number of words into my piece. If it feels chunky or strange in its rhythm, it’s a part of the assignment and what it does to me. I’ll only get better! Thank you for your patience!