Saving the Reject | Michael Clifford | Editing

f o u r ;

| s y d n e y |

The darkness of the night thickened, the few lights illuminated in that part of town allowing the stars to contrast against their backdrop of infinite depth with a beautiful, glimmering gleam. The moon slowly moved across the sky as the sun rose and fell on the opposing side of the earth, remarkably and simultaneously day and night, in such a perfect harmony that it rivaled mankind's greatest symphony. At dock 249, the sibling silhouettes that have so long haunted the pygmy pier became so brilliantly immersed in the thick darkness that it seemed to take them away, leaving only minuet traces of them as daylight sprouted; they were stardust, deposited only as proof of existence.

The dawn of the new day brought about its own wonders, its own adventures, and its own realities. The city awoke like the end of hibernation: slowly, peacefully, with no sense of urgency despite the demanding schedules nearly everyone had. But there stayed dock 249, a landmark so sedentary in a world so active that it was constantly ignored: a hidden treasure in plain sight. The tide had fallen in the absence of the moon, lowering the lone sailboat docked at the end of the pier, the beloved waves not having the strength of the moon to lift it closer to the stars.

"Why did we come all the way out here?" whined a pretentious blonde young woman, her childish complaining pinpointing her preferred personality nearly perfectly. She carried herself like a princess, constantly in need of a prince to save her, and she knew that was all she'd ever be seen as.

Her prince of the day wasn't much of a prince at all, in any sense of the word. He was using her, and she knew it well, but she had convinced herself that it was what she wanted. "I thought you didn't want to get caught skipping?" muttered a tired Michael as an answer.

"And I thought you lived alone," she retorted, still allowing herself to be slightly dragged by her dear prince charming. "Why don't we just go to your house?"

"I have roommates, Harper," Michael replied with an eye roll, still not completely aware where he was taking his sad excuse for a girlfriend. "One of them is home."

"Wow," Harper noted. "You're absolute shit at bullshitting."

Despite yet another eye roll, Michael ignored her comment, neither confirming nor denying the statement (not that Harper needed his confirmation). To be completely honest with himself, going back to his house with Harper probably would have been a much better option, had his home not given him a weird sense of sanctuary he didn't want tainted with something that probably would last the rest of summer.

"You know, if I knew we were gonna walk this much, I would've worn better shoes." Harper pulled him to a stop, reaching down to adjust her too-narrow shoes before they were to continue on any further.

Michael wanted to scoff at this, but he was slowly beginning to hate himself for the way he's been treating Harper. For once, he decided to listen to his girlfriend's complaints, and search for a place to sit for a while.

It was as if he was drawn to it, as if 249 was his favorite number (though it wasn't at all - he was dedicated to the number seven). The dock really wasn't anything special: small, sturdy, like all the other docks in town. It only docked one boat, which was a little odd, but then again, the dock was small. Completely ordinary but not at the same time. Maybe it was the little white sailboat, gently rocking with the calming waves that attracted him. Maybe he was just curious of the worn and faded blue scripture on it's side that he couldn't quite make out from his current position. "Let's go sit down," he offered to Harper, who happily obliged.

Charlotte's Melody was what Michael read at first glance, and he found himself loving the idea of a boat being someone's melody, a place where they felt safe. Everyone, even Michael, needed a place like that. But upon further inspection, he noticed that he had misread the beautiful scripture.