Prompt Writing: A Collection of Short Stories

The Sea and the Sky

Prompt 

You've always loved watching waves crash against cliffs. As you grew, you began to paint them, spending many a day watching from different angles, capturing the chaos of foam and water in acrylic and oil. One day, when painting at the top of the cliff, you fall and brace for death. But it does not come, and instead you feel as though you are cradled by the arms of many. "Oh no," your hear. "We cannot destroy something that has loved us so beautifully."

The painter was peculiar to say the least.

Some in the village said that he was born this way, had come out a little kooky and a little different. Others said that he was like this because of a horrible accident when he was a child, one that had separated him from everyone and everything else, drawing him to the sea. They never could tell you what this accident was though.

Even more said that he was a sea witch, called by the lure of the water to sit on the cliff every day, all day, and paint the waves, his brushstrokes casting spells as they swirled across the canvas, his pigments determining death and life for those he interacted with on rare occasion.

The shopkeeper who sold him the paints, brushes, and canvases would tell you that he was "a kind, lonely boy. Little odd, but nothing wrong with him. Just loves painting the waves."

The people who lived near his little cottage at the edge of the coast would tell you that he was "a very quiet boy, never makes too much noise. Always up by sunrise and doesn't come back until the sunset."

None of them would tell you the depth of his soul, the expanse of his heart. No one could tell you, because none of them knew. None of them really cared enough to know.

One boy in the village cared enough to be curious. He would watch him painting on the cliffs every so often, spending just long enough between his couriering duties to watch how he waited for hours to find the perfect image to capture, then setting about to depict it perfectly in colors, a singular moment of frozen time forever immortalized.

The painter knew he was being watched by the courier, perfectly aware of how long he stood there, staring as his brush passed over the canvas and left the beauty of the ocean in its wake. He just didn't care enough to do anything about it. The painter was devoted to his craft, nothing more. Those who wanted to watch, who wished to observe, were perfectly welcome to.

The painter never sold his work, preferring to give the results of days and days of devotion as gifts to strangers, trading his works in exchange for food and necessities. Often, those he gifted his works to would turn around and sell them for high prices, the quality of his work unmatched by even the highest professionals of the country.

Some pieces were displayed around the town. There were several of the most beautiful paintings hung in the town tavern, one of a sunset, another of a calm beach, yet another of the sea before a storm. There was another of the waves in a frenzy, full of rain and lightning hung up in the store of the shopkeeper the painter bought his supplies from.

The courier had one. A small piece of canvas the painter had used to depict a crab scuttling down the shore. The painter had thrown it aside, muttering in disgust about ruined paints. It was true, the paint quality on the small piece of canvas was poor. Some of it was grainy and flaked off in places. Some of it was too thick, creating hard, raised portions of the painting. Still, the courier thought it was beautiful. As he thought all the painter's works were beautiful. Time and chaos, nature and calm, all suspended in a single picture. Shining with love for the strength and mystery of the ocean, yes. They were beautiful.

The courier found them beautiful, yes. But not quite as beautiful as he found the painter. Soft, thin hands, prefect for gripping a brush. Slender fingers that were nimble as they were fast. A frame whittled down to muscle and bone from a life of little food and constant work, constant creating. A face that was worn and tired, lined with wrinkles from frowns and smiles and squints of concentration. Eyes that were dark and stormy, like the sea they watched. Hair golden and lightened from the blaze of the sun. Skin dark, rough, and tanned from the sun and the wind.

Yes, the paintings of the waves and the sea were beautiful. But not as beautiful as their creator. The courier broke his gaze from the lithe form bent over its work, head bowed in concentration as the brush gently stroked across the canvas. It was time he returned to work. He was already in trouble from lingering too long once this week; best not to make it twice.

Up on the cliff, the painter felt the eyes watching him depart and his shoulders fell, the tension draining out of them as he dropped his façade. The canvas on his lap lay blank, the brush dry, his working guise falling off in an instant.

He sighed, the weight of the void in his chest growing deeper. This was the truth no one knew, no one saw.

His soul was deep, but it was not full. There was a void inside of him that grew larger and larger every day, consuming the happiness and joy of his work, his life, even stealing his love of the sea from him until nothing was left but emptiness, darkness, and sorrow.

He rubbed at the ache in his chest, just above his heart as a single tear fell to the canvas on his lap, darkening the white surface. The surface that would never hold a painting, never bear the weight of the waves upon its face. He had painted his last work, gifting it to the shopkeeper who had been so kind to him for so long, just the day before. The canvas he held now was just a veneer to keep the watching courier from worrying, from intervening.

Feeling the weight of life lifting from his chest, the painter stood, clutching the canvas, the brush, and the container of paints to his chest. The edge of the cliff was just a few steps away, the turmoil of the crashing, rumbling, rolling waves at the bottom of the steep drop from the edge.

Three steps, two steps. The painter's hands trembled as more tears broke away, being streaked across his cheeks by the brisk wind blowing in off the sea.

The weight lightened a little more.

One step. And all that was left was the empty air above the ocean, the smell of the salt and the crash of the waves.

One more step, one more step into nothing but the empty air.

The wind howled, the air rushing and ringing as the colors of the cliff rushed by, growing darker and darker as the water grew closer and closer.

The sound of the waves crashing became deafening, the noise drowning out everything but the scream of the air flooding past the painter as he fell.

And fell.

And fell. And fell, and fell, and fell.

And then the water. The silence of the water was startling compared to the roaring of the wind, the thunder of the waves.

There was no pain, no feeling of breaking apart upon smacking into the ocean, no blood in the water or numbness of the extremities.

It was cool and quiet and peaceful. The painter relaxed, the supplies he carried floating away, down to the depths of the sea.

He felt safe, cradled, sheltered. He felt as though his mother were gently rocking him to sleep again, like she ad when he was a child. Before the sickness had taken her. Before her ashes had been cast into the waters of the ocean. Before he felt his soul breaking under the ache her loss had left him.

Now, that ache would leave him. His mother was here, in the waves, chasing the secrets of the deep. Now he would join her.

No.... The voice was gentle, soft as it seemed to fill his ears, his lungs, his heart.

It soothed the ache, calming it as it reared its ugly head. It filled the void of his soul, seeping into the cracks left by the spreading darkness, chasing it away. It cradled his mind, setting his racing thoughts to rest and calming his fears.

Oh no, the voice said. No, we cannot destroy something that has loved us so beautifully. That would be a terrible tragedy. And all at once, the painter knew. He knew he was alive, alive and cradled in the arms of the ocean.

"Why?" he asked. His question seemed timid and small compared to the vast expanse of the sea. "Why would you save me? I meant to fall. I meant to die."

There was a soft noise, almost like a disproving tsk.

There is no joy in death, the water replied, swirling around him gently. To allow the one who has watched us so many years, who has captured out image so many times, to allow that one to die would be a shame, a tragedy, an upset. A soul as pure as yours should be cherished, protected, guarded, not left to die. You wish to join your mother, the one who loved the sea as you do. But in death, you would only find she has remained with us, here among the waves.

There was a sound, a low swishing in the water, as something swam out of the darkness below, an iridescent tail propelling it upwards, towards the light.

The painter froze, the tears that leaked from his eyes dispersing into the water.

"Mother?"

The siren smiled, her hand reaching out to caress the cheek of her only son, the love in her eyes shining from their gentle green depths.

My son.

And mother and son embraced, a world of loss and loneliness, sadness and pain healed in that moment.

My darling, I am so sorry that I left you, his mother cried softly, her hand gently stroking down his back. I held out against the fever as long as I could. I fought with everything inside myself, every bit of strength I had, but it just wasn't enough.

"Mother, no," the painter said softly, pulling back to look her in the eyes. "I never blamed you. The doctor could do nothing to help, no one could help. It wasn't your fault you succumbed to the sickness. So many people did, and there was nothing to be done for it." He cradled her face gently in his hands. "Please. Don't blame yourself either."

The siren smiled, kissing her son gently on the forehead as the water swirled around them.

Come with us, she implored. I'll show you the wonders of the waters.

The painter smiled and took her hand in his. "Yes."

And the ocean held him once more, tousling his hair and ripping his clothes as a gentle light spread across his legs, fusing them as one. The skin underneath it turned silvery, covered in scales small and thin, but strong. The feet at the end of the tail lengthened, becoming thinner as it stretched out into a fin powerful enough to propel through even the most turbulent of waters. And when the light was gone, two sirens, a mother and a son, darted off into the darkness of the waters below.