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Drifting Dunes

Locked hearts and opened eyes

By Justin von BosauPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
2

Sand got in my face, and I almost threw it away when I brought my hands up to brush my eyes. It was a small thing--little, I mean; insignificant and little and adrift amidst the massive dunes that had piled up against the glass of the city buildings. But I had kept it, and as my hands came up, I clutched them tighter to keep it in my grasp--too tight, and the metal's edges cut against my palm. Wincing, I opened my eyes again against the wind, and opened my hand to look at it again.

It was such a tiny thing. It was gold, and that gold had flaked away, leaving dully glinting silver. It bore a striking resemblance to a bullet shell, once fired. It was tired and old, and had warped on one side, so that the clasp could not be undone without utterly destroying the thing.

It was a heart--or, the version used in cards and poems by sentimentalists. It was small and curving, and had sharp edges at the bottom and sides. It had a keyhole stenciled in the middle, but no proper indentation for a key to fit inside. A hole at the top held the remnants of a chain whose links were broken.

I had walked to the end of the buildings, and behind me they stood dormant and empty. A carrion bird had made a nest in one of the windows at the top of a skyrise, but the wall was too sheer to climb for its eggs. I sat now resting with my back to one of the brick-and-mortar stores. It was one of my favorites; a cherubic girl on it laughed and held up ice cream in her painted hands to you, the viewer. Or me, I suppose, since people didn't really leave Franklin's Resort anymore. Someday they wouldn't open the doors for me again, and painted ice cream would be all I could live off of. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing.

I looked at the necklace again. If Rico were on the trip with me, he'd tell me to junk it, and he'd be right to say so. Gold like this, even flaked off, could get you a week's worth of meals. It'd be melted down, cast as someone else's flaking ring, and you needn't worry anymore!

The heart had a quiet shine to it, one that fell away if you tried to find it in your eyes properly. The moon rested over its surface and it looked up at you when you weren't paying attention, so that it seemed less and less easy to forget it. Any Junker knows, you don't become a sentimentalist. Fastest way to lose a meal.

I brushed some sand away from the clasp, and looked closer at the closed crack, as if whatever was inside could satisfy my curiosity.

It didn't matter, of course, what was inside. When I got up and went back, I'd sell the little thing, and not wander back out into the dunes for seven days. At least three--I think Hanson would give me at least enough for three.

But it was pretty. I had to admit it; it was a pretty little thing.

I could crush it if I wanted; I could wrap a hand around this tiny heart and break it down without a second's struggle.

I want to know what's inside, because if I know then it's just another little item. Why should I care to look at someone's spouse, someone's lover, someone's child? Someone's dog or cat, for all I know. Probably nobody even still alive.

I leaned back against the building, looking out. Where the city ended, the desert took hold. The nearest dune was one I'd been up to a few times for a dare. Beyond it were more dunes; beyond them, it was rumored, was a plane crash that had been scavenged for a whole three years worth of meals. Beyond there, nobody knew.

The wind blew softer, and because I'd taken my eyes off it, it was glinting up at me. Its gaze was as fragile as a newborn's. It had to be; it was someone's heart, after all.

I rested my head in one hand, turning it over and over in the other. Most of the back was blemished. The front, surprisingly, looked clean except for the flaking. The clasp was irreparable.

What did I have back there? Back in Franklin's Resort? Who would I put in here?

Rico, if there was anyone. He wasn't much, and he was insufferable on long days out here, but his company was nice. I've let him stay the night a few times, little heart, and I won't admit to anything more.

What is the thing I've wanted for myself?

A long time ago, I was standing on a lake. It was winter, and the lake had frozen. My grandmother had taken me out, and she held my mittened hand. The wind was a brute, nipping at me while I steadied my new legs on the ice. She held on while we started skating, and let go before I realized I was doing it on my own. I could barely run, and it was the fastest I'd ever gone. The wind was swift against me as I laughed. That's my first memory.

I miss her, little heart. I don't tell many people that. I miss her and I miss that lake, and I miss the laughing noises; the small stand on the side with popcorn; the dogs and the grass and the lights that came on in the nighttime. But I miss her the most, because I never felt lost with her.

It's harder to see. I hate how sniffling sounds; I wiped at my face and waited for my vision to clear up. When I looked away at the dune, the little heart looked up at me again with wonder.

I got up, making my way out into the desert. The nighttime sand is cold, and I pulled my coat up around my neck tighter. I don't know why I'm even going out this way--all it means is a longer walk back.

I can feel the gentle curve of the metal against my coarse and line-cut hand, and it's a comfort. It's terribly little, but I think that's fine. I'll have to forgo supper for a few nights, but I can buy a new chain for it. If I'm wearing it, Rico will know better than to take it the next time he's over. He'll call me a sentimentalist, and he'll shut up and smile like he always does when I take his hand.

At the top of the dune, the air whips by faster. It presses at my back, ready to knock me forward into the unknown, and for a moment, I want to let it. Then I'm steady again, looking out at the dark horizon. At the furthest edge of the night, I don't know where the land ends and the sky begins. I grip the metal tighter, and it presses against me. It has a home, and it knows it.

I'll never unclasp it, because if I did, then I'd know what's inside.

Looking up, I wonder how I've gone so long without seeing all these beautiful stars.

Short Story
2

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Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

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    Well-structured & engaging content

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  • Twyla2 years ago

    I love your story! Amazing details.

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