PILOT;
steel.
HE was made of steel.
he was made of steel wrapped in milk dud wrappers and blueberry candy floss.
he was made of steel, yet no matter how warm the sickly sweet chocolate of almond-flavored kisses that burned through the tongues of girl upon girl, he could not be melted. could not be held, for steel was heavy— too heavy for the pretty chocolate girls of gauzy papaya-silken skin with hay needles of arms, dissipating throats and rotting stomachs.
he was made of steel. heavy, cold, reflective (not see-through) steel, waiting to be shaped and formed into something much more beautiful than just a fist-sized pound of an aching, beating heart.
the weather was cold at seaside, yet the shores, now almost icy, crash violently into the vanilla cream sands that appeared whiter than the ivory sun as he walked along the moist wooden dock that settled between dancing cerulean hands. his shaky fingers grasped around a worn notebook of frayed paper edges, with a sycamore-fleshed pencil tattered of many bite marks tucked snuggly inside the cool metal rings.
it was like a routine for this man of supposed steel to gather inspiration from the very grains and dewy saltwater enriched between the edges of the earth. lyrics of intangible dreams and selfish desires scribbled messily all resided in the notebook that was his twisted licorice brain (that often fought with his heart of steel), yet the words were meaningless, as if he'd just ripped them from the dictionary of an anguished mime. the pages are empty as no worthless stroke of a faded pencil could fulfill them, is what he always thinks.
but, then he thinks, is the sea empty, even if millions of fish take refuge in the waves? even if the sea was bottomless, serving no purpose but to keep people like him away from the true hollowness of the earth? yet, despite this, he is somehow magnetized towards the sea, and he is supposed to somehow, somehow write something to fill the watery depths and quench its thirst for a sweet taste of humanity's bitter cruelty, as the sea is only limited to what is underneath it all.
but he has nothing.
and he hates that.
he has nothing, except for his steel heart, which would inevitably lead him to a death colder than himself if he were to ever step foot in the seas farthest from home.
because, after all, water could easily melt paper and cotton candy.
and now, here he is, stood prominently at the edge of the dock. the cool air brought goosebumps to his skin the same color as the creamy sands, yet also caused by his squinted eyes peeking at the large vastness of the open oceans that brought an airy blue hue to his dark hair. he, in his ripped blue jeans, bright yellow flip flops and wrinkled white shirt, crossed his pale, lanky legs of blackened bruises and scabs and sat down with his notebook flipped to a blank page rested on his lap.
he didn't know if he had heard or felt it coming, but something, someone, had ran into him from behind and shoved into his sweaty back, stumbling as the notebook he's had all his adulthood slipped out of his reach and into the softly moving waters below with a small soul-crushing splash.
his heart had ached for a moment, but just a moment only. yet his mind pierced his own reddened ears with silent screams, as all he ever knew was now lost.
the silky-feathered seagulls flying in the aquamarine heavens above cried for him, and the wispy clouds that once translucently blocked the icarus-kissed sun had cleared only for him to next hear the sound of a girl's loud gasp.
she's silent.
he turns his head, but only a little, enough for him to see white shoes dusted with grass and sand in the corner of his eye.
she apologizes. he's holding on for dear life.
a soft scoff emitted from his nose, and all he could think of was one thing — if that notebook was all i ever knew, you're going to be its replacement.
