Air & Water

He breathed inward sharply. His throat seemed surprised by the ability, convulsing as the air rushed inwards while his lips shuttered open and closed. A gasping shudder. His lungs ached as air expanded them, sharp pains spreading over the whole of his chest and stomach from an age without breathing. He’d no time to think how long ago the wave had knocked him from the sailboat. Almost immediately, the air was forced out again as he hacked and coughed. The force ejected water from his mouth and lungs though made it a difficult struggle to draw in a second breath. Water already streamed down his disheveled dirty-blonde hair and into his eyes. He kept them closed, a ward against the salt already stinging his face.

His lethargic legs did their best to whip forward to keep him on the surface, though the waves of the ocean made it a near impossible task. His arms already had become so numb that he could do little more than flail one about while he tried to brush water from his face and hold his nose to prevent any more splashing water from finding a home in his nostrils.

With the last cough, his lungs seemed clear, though another wave struck him. With a sudden swell, the sounds of the ocean vanished and his understanding of "up" was gone. Empty of air, his lungs began to burn knowing only the remnants of salt. His chest became tighter still, demanding his throat to open and air to flow within. His chest lurched. His stomach joined the motion. His nostrils swallowed water, hoping it was air, and his body hacked again, trying to force the water out but having no air to do so. No air meant no buoyancy. Unable to right himself meant he could not kick his dead legs and find the surface again. He winced as he forced his eyes to open, flooding burning salt back into his stinging eyes. A light! He kicked, and the light grew brighter... but there was no air. His stung eyes widened further and his chest froze. His stomach grew cold. He stopped kicking and he could only remember that she’d told him not to sail alone. “It’ll be too windy out.”

If I Were...

If I were a million dollars, I'd be afraid. Very afraid, and especially of me. Not the me who was a million dollars, no, but the me who is writing this. We can forget, sometimes, that there's someone behind these words--expressing something he hopes is deep, something strong, clear, vibrant, even just pretty... sometimes something that he doesn't even know, but is just stumbling over the smallest fragment of realization.

It'll be so small, too. An idea that rests on the tip of he tongue of a mayfly that's drifted to land on the tip of the tongue of an open-mouthed alzheimer patient who isn't sure if the pressure on his chest is cardiac arythmia or connected to the strange red-headed girl that the sexy nurse helps up onto his bed every Sunday afternoon at one. My, that's a long sentence--lovely?--but it won't by me dinner and certainly won't pay the rent. None of my words will, but that's probably why I'm glad I'm not a million dollars. I'd spend myself. Each word would have value and each letter a portion of it.

I.

Right there! That tiny little letter is a word, and it means something. Put a value to it, though. I. Is it worth ten bucks? Out of a million? I'd hope it was worth more. Doesn't "I" mean all of me? Shouldn't that one word mean everything, then? What if I wanted to write something fancy? Like... Mississippi? That's four of them, there. Four million dollars of me, and that's not even counting all the other letters. But, what does Mississippi mean to me? Is it worth four of me? If I can't express what I mean with a four-million-and-some-change dollar word, how can I hope to do it with anything else? But, that's why I'm glad I'm not a million dollars. My words and letters aren't worth much all on their own, so I can toss them around as much as I want until they earn their keep. I can litter them along the streets like too many dust bunnies under my kitchen table, or plot them out carefully like hobos who know the best places to catch an hour or two of sleep without being disturbed by the local cops. Hell, I can even try to arrange them into something clever about a million bucks and how as much as I'd love to have it, it'd make everything a good deal rougher to give any meaning.

No, I'll stay a dusty hobo dreaming about mayflies and elderly redheads who can't help but remember being set down on the bed of someone she remembers loving once a long time ago. That'll last.