Header Image: City Night: Jay Kwan
Untitled: Grey Ganz Poduska
On a sand dune there lays a seashell. Her stomach is the color of rosebuds, but she likes her purple center most of all. She likes the way it glistens and gleams in the sunlight, sparkling colors of the deep sea. Tall grass sways around her, and those walking by pretend it was always there. Pretend it wasn’t planted ten years ago. The waves are slowly lapping at the base of her small hill, pulling the sand away into the depths.
She can hear the voices of the grains, soft and high, but she can’t quite make out whether they are laughing or crying. She hears "goodbye, goodbye." As stars begin to dot the sky, she hears a flutter. A crane has landed next to her. They listen to the sand together and watch the night wash over the horizon. They discuss the catches the crane made in the sea that day, they chat lightly about how the shell’s mother would have loved this sky, she was always one to enjoy the little things.
"Crane," the shell asks, "would you do me a favor?" The crane cocks his head and shuffles his feet in the cool sand. "Crane," the shell says, "can you take me to the stars?" He opens his wings and gently grasps her in his claws, careful to avoid scratching her smooth back. He takes off and some sand is sent into a flurry, the grains hitting the grass, eachother, and then falling still. The pair rises into the sky, over the calm ocean and her fish, alongside the clouds and their raindrops, higher and higher yet. "Shell," the crane says, "these are my friends, the stars."
They sail in between each ember of light and whisper greetings. The crane takes one final turn back towards the shore, passing over an outcrop of boulders. He steels himself, and counts, "one, two, three." The shell tumbles from his talons and sighs her way to the rocks, watching the stars grow smaller before she shatters.