Wading. Forever wading.

Tunes in my head: Wading In The Velvet Sea by Phish
Atmosphere: Posting short stories.

The tides of the Giant's Causeway smashed their selves against the rock for several hundreds of years. The precipice had become the main destination for those who wished to leave Ireland. A renowned lover's leap, upon where I stood.

For what seems like four score years, I stood upon the ice's edge. Balancing along the razor wire of the rocks, I hold a locket encased in burning gold and sparkling diamonds.

Inside was a picture of a woman, a lady of twenty of seven, the most amazing beauty beaming from her eyes, the sparking of her teeth hitting the glass whom they are contained.

The beat rain's bullets start to hit the jagged rocks below, as I conjure the mental image of replicating their every move. Imagining how I might contort upon the descent. Imagining what may happen to the treasure in my hand.

The thought frightens me, scares me, haunts me. In sequences, the fate of the locket continues to haunt me, as time passes on, like a man wading in a velvet sea, a lighthouse keeper looking out to sea; inconquerable and undeniably progressing.

Clutching the cold metal of the locket, my mind wanders in the desert of my memory, eventually coming to the oasis of the origins of the woman inside. A lady named Christabel, twenty and seven, someone who I knew for what seemed like seventeen seconds.

Thinking about this elegant goddess, tears ran down the visage in my mind. Even though the memory seemed very clear, a haze of emotions, mangled and torn, confused in the spotlight, twisting my dreams.

A winter day in the middle of July; the most unusual of occurences. Walking through the streets, a hint of Easter festivity confused me. Until I saw Christabel.

Her eyes a dark brown contrasting against the dull grey tones of ash in the air. Her hair and lips a similar crimson, the bullseye of the magnificent target. Her unsmiling mouth trembling with all of the despair, the doubts even here on the north of the Irish Sea.

Looking into the wallet, I attempt to recollect the tale's that she recounted to me in her vague Prussian accent, the likes of which I'd never heard. A piece of wood floated across the sea below the Causeway as I gradually become lost in the locket's reminiscent grasp.

"I took a moment from my day, and wrapped it up in things you say, mailed it off to your address, it'll get there pretty soon I guess" a voice whispered in my ear. Turning my head around, I met her eyes with a look of elation. The waves became white noise with the dim murmurings of the city. The voices became one giant crowd in the wooden jungle. Eyes transfixed on the lady, she started to scurry away, one hand locked on her hat, the other on her dress. I saw her walk on and on, out of my line of vision, out of my mind.

Blinking, I returned to the rocky outcrop, the water and red light from the sky combined to make a beautiful tableaux of picturesque landscapes. The realisation that Christabel had walked into the sea hit me like a Crimean bayonet plunged deep into my chest.

The hands began to sweat, the legs began to tremble. The subterranean rocks began to tremble as a psychological earthquake tore my psyche apart. Locked in silent monologues, in silent screams, the sea began to look more like home than any countryside cottage.

Ships sailed in the waters long ago. The rocks of the Causeway often caused major structural damage, and the seas became crimson with red dye. The Rubicon of the British Isles was on these shores between the Irish and the Sassenachs, and many a person had transversed the sea on their final voyage.

I looked down into my head, at the locket which glistened with sweat and silver. Inside, the glass had remained intact where it should have been penetrated; the picture of the young woman had gone. The purpose of the lover's leap had been furfilled, taking romantics away from us.