With charcoals a whole world can be created.
A world for you, a world for me, and for you three.
A line only has to be smeared across the page to indicate the skyline.
No clouds on this page we will have.
Only curves for birds that fly too high,
and perhaps a circle for the sun, with the brilliance of a black dot.
There will be no rainbows,
for there is no color in this world of charcoal.
But that suits him just fine.
The dark water beneath the rocks suits him just as well.
It has no color he will argue if you ask, just texture.
But no one does.
"Water is very difficult to draw. All the curves, forms, patterns; they never seem to stop. They never cease to create more.."
Is what he may tell you if you ever crossed over to his side.
"It is too far."
"Leave him, he's just an imbicile."
"He's been sitting there for so long it doesn't even matter anymore."
"What a fool, wasting his time like that."
The crowd used to look at him with a questioning eye; some with scared eyes, but time has come and it has gone, and still he sits.
The crowd is not pleased; day after day.
It is the same they say.
They come walking their dogs after work, their children play in the sand.
They come holding hands with their lovers, they come to watch the sunrise.
Romantic it is.
Beautiful they say.
But occasionally,
"He is wasting his life away on those rocks! Look at him sitting around, what a fool."
someone may say after another quick glance to determine if the fool is still there.
And back home they go once more.
Come nightfall, come dawn, come afternoon sun, come twilight.
The fool is always there.
His body busy brushing, scrubbing, threading.
Water consumes all that is alive, but even it refuses to taint intself with the fool.
Let him sit there, it reasons.
And on he will go, never looking up, behind, around to see what is going on in the world.
Not a care, not a tear he will shed.
He is not careless.
Charcoal imprints deep enough to run into his blood, he continues.
A change is noticable in his posture.
He is not careless, no.
He sits.
Away from others, away from the world to which he has turned his back against.
He is hunched over.
"Could it be our fool is finally too exhuasted to continue sitting out there"
"Perhaps we can find him a local psyhiatrist, I'm sure the boy's got lots of screws that need some fixing."
They gather with their dogs, children and lovers all to watch the boy with anticipation, for when he musters up enough strenght and sense to finally head back to life.
"What is his name anyway?"
"I don't know, but I heard he was once a brilliant student."
"Really? I wonder how he got this way."
"I heard that he one day just walked out there and never looked back again."
"He never even replied to our shouts for him to come back! That rude boy!"
"You'd think he would show a little more respect for us."
The comotion died down to a crowd witnessing a miracle.
The fool began to move,
No! He bagan to shake,
to slip.
Sink.
No! He was moving,
They saw.
Someone finally had enough courage to run across those rocks to grab the boy before he fell in all the way.
He loved water he would tell you if he could.
He loved it dearly and spent a vast amount of time trying to draw it in, even with blisters he sketched away.
He was tireless. He would not stop.
He loved it dearly he would tell you.
But there was no boy.
..
A potatoe sack was tugged by the waves below.
More hunched it became as the water pulled harder.
The potatoe sack was full of trash,
and out it all came tumbling-
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Submission Name: Boy with a World of Charcoal.
