Thrice I Watched You Leave

This short story will never be boring to me.

Painting Flowers

(originally posted on my personal blog; I’m transferring it here)


The gentle ocean breeze frustrated us to no end. While it might have blown my hair in a way a model posing for a magazine about the country and the seaside—if there was even a magazine of that sort—would have liked, I could not care less that time. We were five then, trying and trying yet utterly failing on building sand castles–castles that embodied our dreams, encapsulated our aspirations. We had done nothing but the base, about three inches high and five inches wide, yet we had our plans and blueprints on our minds. It would be really big, you said. It would have loads of rooms and people would live in it, I said. We were idealistic little children, five, unaware that we could have added a little water so the wind wouldn’t be able to ruin the…

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