The Precipice and the Sea
The precipice and the sea
a very short story
Taimur had a way of falling in loves that had no chance in hell of working out, let alone in heaven. We all know what a sordid affair that turned into at the outset. Milton gave his eyes for the vision, and spoke then mostly in tongues, the words of the devil and God, and God knows what. Taimur’s loves had a way of not forgiving him his vision; for which his soul had given away wanting anything else, or possessing anything else, including hind- or fore- sight. For him everything was awash in this hue, there was no sense of the obvious; banality he was oblivious to. For even the quotidian contained for him the profound pleasure rippling in the rapturous aesthetics of that word. There was no way anything earthbound was going to work out for him. There was, is only one, he still held; aloft above his head for a lifetime right up to this precipice. What did he see?
The precipice and the sea.
Precocious of the precipice to feel it looms over the sea, the expanse and depth of which would swallow it without even much vainglory or ado, if the sea were to even yawn at it. Back to wherefrom it came and goes, all your royal majesties.
Taimur’s precipice looked out onto the sea, a channel he had begun to swim, to her. He saw himself out there on the waves. He had swum and tread water throughout his childhood; he was made up of beaches, brought up in swimming pools and son of a sailor and south of the islands stuff. Not at all used to mass land masses, or this precipice feeling. Scared of heights type. Two hims. And even in the bodies of water, including sea, there had always been shore nearby-be it anchoring or sailing majestic-rustic cargo ships. Not this time.
He had swum for a decade, treading water when not, no shore in sight. For the first decade, he thought she would return. The second decade he decided he had better swim, because he figured he would never be able to afford a plane ticket. And, it was just her voice, guiding him through the night, and the stars, as lonely in their black water, as he in his.
Holding his breath to float on his back, for a few moments merging into the great black bleakness; mirror but for the struggle of keeping the body moving, and mothering this addiction to oxygen. Treading water otherwise, for fear of going under as much as the will to stay afloat. Sleeping, a precarious luxury in either case. Waking dreams, delusions, hallucinatory mirages of, oases of sand, jazeeras, thought tracks dirtfull of every remembered sense of being able to not move a muscle and yet not die. The realities of those nights, only sea, and beneath him the monsters that lurk, he sees from the precipice.
I never thought he would go so far, on the precipice he says to me. No, I didn’t think so either, I say, This is madness. Will he drown? He asks me. You would know better, I say. No, I have no idea either, he says.
Why are you on the precipice? He asks me.
Wow! Poetic, graceful and eloquent, with a wonderfully sharp wit. You my friend have just raised the bar for the prose toddlers in this community.
I am a fan, I’ve already read this twice and now going for my third go (something to help me to the Friday).
Fraz is so right. Damn, I feel so unaccomplished. *sigh* this is beautiful
lol, Fraz he’s a teacher, a professional, an unfair bar to raise for us toddlers.
And yes, this is more characteristic of you, (sir) Jawad. The poetic prose, the slightly longer sentences (but not as long as I usually expect from you
) and the big words that I never use in my prose.
This was entertaining, especially the end. A nice twist to the whole thing. Keep us posted with more!
Wow, I don’t know how I missed this. This is an amalgamation of styles. I see a lot of Marquez here, a little bit of Rushdie (the later books, esp. his story “At the Auction of the Ruby Slippers”), and just a touch of Coelho in the descriptions (primarily the Alchemist).
It was pretty to say the least. It was NOT easy prose. You demand your reader’s participation, interpretation, and attention much like the early modernists.
I quite liked it. I was wondering the whole time how you would end it. It was beautifully done. Closure in its entirety.
Looking forward to more.