Stories in the Sand
by John D. Connelley
Ezra Storch finished the final touches on his latest story. As he stood back, the people thronged to get a glimpse. They marveled at the simple, yet profound meaning of the work. Each new story would last only as long as the winds were calm, allowing the colorful sand Ezra used to draw the symbols to remain. Once the weekly windstorm arose, away went the colorful grains of sand. It was only then he was able to create a new work.
Ezra strolled away, full of satisfaction. His visited the café for lunch and a cup of coffee, free of charge of course. He would bask in the comments of wonder at his newest work. Then he made his way home to nap.
Each week, by muse or magic, he would receive an idea for a wonderful story, collect a bucketful of colorful sand by the mineral-rich pond at the edge of town and write his new story on the stone dais in the town square. Then, a few days later, a great windstorm blew the story away. He made no hard money, but received everything he could from the shops in town. A wonderful life.
The windstorms always happened late Saturday nights. Ezra fancied he could almost smell his stories being blown away into the infinite, but this night he smelled nothing. No gusty blasts shook the wooden shutters of his small bedroom, no strong breeze from underneath his balcony door ruffled his thin tapestry carpet.
Ezra sat up in bed. All was sickeningly calm. He opened the shutters. Not even the slightest of breezes touched his cheeks. He saw a calm, brilliant night sky full of stars.
“Hmmm...” he said aloud to himself.
Ezra padded about his room, occasionally peering out the window before going back to bed. He lay down and, fitfully, tried to sleep. He reassured himself the winds would come, calming down enough to doze off.
When Ezra awoke, it was still dark; he had no idea whether or not the winds had come, so he dressed and dashed off to view the dais. He saw the sand undisturbed. It was still early, he thought, the winds could still come.
Ezra returned home and sat on his bed. He began to feel tired. He placed a small, wadded-up piece of paper on the windowsill so he could tell if the winds picked up while he slept.
Hours later Ezra's eyes snapped open. He quickly shot a glance at the window sill. The wadded piece of paper still was there.
Ezra stood and began wringing his hands.
“Why is this happening? How will I survive without making new stories?” he muttered.
Ezra sat heavily on his bed and put his head in his hands.
Morning broke and Ezra tried to reassure himself all would be fine. He walked back to the dais.
“Don't lose hope... Don't lose hope... Don't lose hope,” Ezra chanted as he walked. Along the way, he saw people emerging from their homes to gather in the town square, people going to open their shops, artisans delivering their goods.
The colorful grains of sand were still there, just as he had so carefully placed them.
“Here early, Mr. Storch?” said an elderly lady as she walked past.
“Must be a doozy of a story if you're at it so early,” said a young girl, craning her head around as she kept up with her mother's quick gate.
Ezra waved and smiled, hiding his fear.
“What are you waiting for?” said a young man, stroking his goatee and adjusting his spectacles.
“Don't usually see you here till mid-week,” said a small fat man as he stooped to tie his shoe.
“Just checking,” said Ezra as he shuffled away. He stopped by the café and sat at his usual table. The waitress greeted him warmly.
Ezra finished breakfast and went to the dais one more time. The sand was still there. Maybe a stray animal might come by and disturb the sand; that could work, he thought as he slumped home.
Days passed. No new ideas came. He sat in his small bedroom trying to think of a story, something to amaze. Nothing. Weeks went by. The story in the sand remained. People took no interest in the old story or him. Even the waitress at the café became cold. He could see the cook peer around the corner of the kitchen, giving a disapproving look. The food was served cold. The coffee was served cold.
After two months, the waitress brought a bill when she served the food. At least this time, it was warm and the coffee hot. Ezra knew it would be the last. He dug into his pocket and produced a small coin, just enough to cover the bill and leave a meager tip.
Ezra carried the coin only as a keepsake. It had been given to him by a young mother to show appreciation for the first story Ezra had ever created. People began to adorn him with praise and presents, offer food, clothing. After the second story, the owner of the café had invited Ezra to dine for free any time. Those days were gone.
Soon Ezra was looking for scraps of food in the square and drinking from the pond at the edge of town. The colorful sand was easily stirred up, imparting a foul taste in his mouth as he drank from his cupped hands. He was the town derelict, scorned by all. No one remembered his storytelling. He didn't even bother to look at the dais whenever he passed; he just hung his head.
Late one Saturday evening, Ezra Storch could take it no longer. He approached the dais and cast himself upon it, scattering the colorful sand everywhere. Writhing in the agony of his death throes, he became the ending of his greatest story. The town built a statue to remember the writer who lived only to write. It became a lovely little tourist trap... or inspiration.
Copyright © 2022 by John D. Connelley
