Algae Number Four
The wall outside is glowing golden. A bird is standing in the air, right in front of her window. It is carrying two yellow straw sticks. She reaches for her watch. A quarter to eight. Sunrise has happened without her, even though it is Sunday. But then, Sundays are different, and thus the hour feels right and wrong at the same time. She thinks of simply drifting back to sleep again. It is tempting, the bed so warm, still carrying the imprint of her night body.
Outside, the grass is wet when she walks through the leaves. It hasn’t rained, the drops of water are dew, or are due to the sprinkling machines. She can’t tell the difference, and there is no one around to ask. Everyone else seems to be asleep still. Sunday, she remembers. Even the wind hasn’t woken up yet. The ocean lays still, the water seems thicker, heavier, almost like liquid metal. Above it, the sun, not golden, but blinding white. The shore is black, and the water close by is black, too. Oil, she thinks. But it isn’t, it is algae, dead algae. The waves must have carried them to the beach in the night. It looks disturbing.
A bus passes by, it doesn’t stop in front of the bungalows. Seeing it, she remembers the start of the journey that brought her here. She had been in a city, walking to the bus station. The place, she knew it, had crossed through it before. Yet, there was another woman waiting at the bus station already, wearing the same coat as she did. They both had tickets for line number eight. A bus arrived, and they stored their bags away. Then they drove through streets, on and on. “It will take hours to get out of the city,” the other woman said. “I don’t mind, I like to be moving,” she answered. When they reached the next stop, she realized that they had caught the wrong bus. The number of it was four. There was something else that was wrong. She tries to remember it, while she watches the oily algae waves sip against the black beach.
Her breath is turning into a hazy little cloud, as she stands there. This can’t be, she thinks, and tries again. Another cloud appears. She tries once more. Again, the warm air she exhales turns to white, even though it isn’t cold enough for it. On the way back, she keeps watching her breath. It stays invisible. Maybe it was a string of cold air, or the humidity of the ocean, she thinks.
Back in her bungalow, she sees the bird again, standing in the air, on the other side of the window, looking in the way she is looking out.
When she returns to the ocean, later in the day, all the algae is gone.
Outside, the grass is wet when she walks through the leaves. It hasn’t rained, the drops of water are dew, or are due to the sprinkling machines. She can’t tell the difference, and there is no one around to ask. Everyone else seems to be asleep still. Sunday, she remembers. Even the wind hasn’t woken up yet. The ocean lays still, the water seems thicker, heavier, almost like liquid metal. Above it, the sun, not golden, but blinding white. The shore is black, and the water close by is black, too. Oil, she thinks. But it isn’t, it is algae, dead algae. The waves must have carried them to the beach in the night. It looks disturbing.
A bus passes by, it doesn’t stop in front of the bungalows. Seeing it, she remembers the start of the journey that brought her here. She had been in a city, walking to the bus station. The place, she knew it, had crossed through it before. Yet, there was another woman waiting at the bus station already, wearing the same coat as she did. They both had tickets for line number eight. A bus arrived, and they stored their bags away. Then they drove through streets, on and on. “It will take hours to get out of the city,” the other woman said. “I don’t mind, I like to be moving,” she answered. When they reached the next stop, she realized that they had caught the wrong bus. The number of it was four. There was something else that was wrong. She tries to remember it, while she watches the oily algae waves sip against the black beach.
Her breath is turning into a hazy little cloud, as she stands there. This can’t be, she thinks, and tries again. Another cloud appears. She tries once more. Again, the warm air she exhales turns to white, even though it isn’t cold enough for it. On the way back, she keeps watching her breath. It stays invisible. Maybe it was a string of cold air, or the humidity of the ocean, she thinks.
Back in her bungalow, she sees the bird again, standing in the air, on the other side of the window, looking in the way she is looking out.
When she returns to the ocean, later in the day, all the algae is gone.
posted by Dorothee at 10:47 AM
1 Comments:
This is eerie. The first time I read it I was too busy to post, but here I am at last. I have a feeling it's best read late at night, with all the lights out, in a warm room with only the throbbing computer screen for company.
Nice post, Dorothee!
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