ocean's prose,, ewan

[rose whitney]

Dawn was long gone when Rose awoke drowsily from her slumber. A comical confusion marked her mouth and sleep filled eyes as she squinted at the oak desk that served as both her pillow and bed the previous night. Adrift between sleep and consciousness, she slowly stretched her limbs as far as they could go while her mouth stretched to release a loud yawn. A cursory glance at the small mirror that hung on the hall showed her how well she slept.

Several lines crisscrossed her face; on her forehead and her cheeks- the obvious results of sleeping on her cluttered desk for six hours. Pale blooms of lavender sprouted underneath her ice blue eyes, a remnant of too many nights staring at her laptop screen willing words that didn’t sound like crap onto the screen. Her hair was a discordant terrain at war with itself, some parts pressed flat against her scalp and other parts were so hilly they became mountains of honey blonde.

Her desk looked no better. Surrounding the sharp and efficient lines of her laptop, discord abounded. Notebooks of every size covered any area of the dark wood not already occupied by her cups of tea and coffee. There were small notebooks, large notebooks, notebooks bounded with leather, red ones, blue ones, notebooks titled ‘Characters’, notebooks that would soon fall apart, brand new notebooks whose pristine white pages waited for her to fill them with her neat and flowery script- perfected since childhood for a time when admirers would approach her with her latest book in hand asking for her signature. She passed a hasty hand through the unkempt strands of hair on her head, her eyes surveying the scene before her. It was incredible to think that all her hopes in becoming a writer relied on these notebooks where she meticulously recorded every literary thought that ran through her mind. With these, she reasoned writing would come to her as easily as breathing. The screen of her laptop, occupied by a mere paragraph of text told something different.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes once more, she peered closer at the text she had slaved over for several hours the previous day.

The morning beamed of newness in the small bedroom, banishing the shadows to oblivion. Jasper stared upwards at the receding shadows as dawn made its arrival. Without the night and the inevitable entrapment of sleep, gone was the innocent assumption he had spent the entire night in his bed. The blackouts happened frequently now, more than he cared to admit. Today he was lucky. He hadn’t woken up half-naked, drenched with dew lying in an unknown field. But what happened when he wasn’t lucky? A soft sigh from the sleeping form of his girlfriend reminded him what he stood to lose if he wasn’t. An icicle of dread traced his spine for the time when he could not remain silent any longer and confess to her what happened when she fell asleep.

Rose frowned critically at her work, tapping impatiently at the backspace button. “No, no, no,” she muttered to herself. It wasn’t terribly bad but it wasn’t terribly good either. Mediocre would not gain her much but the reproach of others who thought nothing of her but the privileged daughter of a publishing magnate.

Reserved, she closed the laptop shut and leaned back in her chair. Spending another day in her grandfather’s cottage, away from the outside world made her feel as if she was slowly but surely turning insane. She couldn’t stay here any longer. With this thought, she rose from her chair and walked purposely towards the small bathroom, ready to start a day that had been stalled for several weeks.

Clad in dark jeans, a simple shirt and colorful over-sized jacket, Rose with her sandals in hand, leisurely maneuvered the sandy beach she had known since a child of eleven. Her steps halted only when the cold spray of the sea splashed her bare feet. Smiling softly, she fondly remembered her grandfather reporting that if someone could not be inspired by the ocean then they had to be a soulless. “Nothing is quite as beautiful or powerful ma chere. Nothing,” he murmured with a soft look in his grey eyes. It was only fitting that she would go to the one place her grandfather loved more than anything for inspiration. Moving a few feet away, she sat down on the warm sand, curling her knees to her chest as she watched the water flow and ebb against the shore. Her eyes drifted to a close as the sun lit her skin and the trade winds ruffled her hair in its breeze.

[ewan colbourne]

The morning began with its customary greeting. The pink light of dawn filtered through his half-open window curtains and into the small, stark bedroom that he had occupied since arriving in France. His sheets were tangled about his muscular legs, his body coated in post-nightmare sweat. His heart beat loudly, like a drumbeat to a headache-inducing metal song that would have, during Ewan’s more rebellious years, caused his father to cringe and ask softly for him to, “Please, son, turn it down.” Ewan no longer had any taste for such loud music, but the thought of it seemed to fit with the night that had changed his life forever. He pressed the heels of his palms about both closed eyes, pressing further and further until his eyes protested silently to the pressure and white-lighted stars began to dance before his eyes. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing; he needed a distraction.

His shower was cold. He had not the patience to wait for the water to warm, and finished quickly enough that he stood, shivering in his towel for the slightest of moments, before wandering back into his bedroom to find something to wear. He had never been the possessor of many nice things. He had money to make due, but little else. His house was small, with small imperfections that he had taken to fixing gradually over the last few months. His furniture—bought from second-hand stores and restored by his own hands—was worn, but perfectly effective for his own purposes. He had a bed to sleep on, a dresser to keep clothing in, a couch to sit on, and kitchen cabinets that had once protested when opened, but now turned smoothly on their hinges without even the slightest sound. Among this trend of worn but effective objects remained Ewan’s clothing. He had never had a taste for the expensive and likely would have kept to such apparel even if wealthy. As of now, he pulled on a pair of slightly faded jeans and long-sleeved grey shirt before setting to work on buttoning up his plaid, collared over shirt and rolling up the sleeves so that only the grey showed from his elbows-down. His shoes—the pair of black trainers he had possessed for years, but only worn on days off, in replace of his brown, rubber-soled butcher boots—followed, then he grabbed his black jacket off of the hook behind his door and headed for the front door.

If there was anything that Ewan disliked more than idle time, it was forced idle time. The first few days off he had been given by the market manager, he had tried to come in regardless, seeking out the only way he knew to eradicate the memories, at least temporarily. However, the manager, a short, balding man with a loud voice, had bellowed, “No, no, no! It is your day off, sir, you take a rest!” This Ewan had done, eventually accepting that he would never be permitted to work every day of the week, and had taken to wandering about the town in search of other distractions. However, on this particular morning, he could think of nothing that might take his mind away from the sight of his wife before him, eyes at once hurt and angry in the moment before her death. His hands were clenched into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. He wandered aimlessly, not looking at anything, having no particular destination in mind. Hours must have worn on before he found himself on the beach, toes mere inches from the rolling tide. “Come back to me,” was his near-silent plead, but it met with misty air and evaporated, falling to the ground before it had even a chance to reach Camilla where she slept.

He wanted to scream in frustration, to rid himself of these plaguing emotions, and might have, had his gaze not caught sight of a slight little blonde sitting on the sand nearby, knees to her chest and gaze locked on the waves in front of her. Pale and flaxen-haired, she was the near opposite of Camilla, whose black hair and soft, dark skin had intoxicated him each time he came into contact with her. She was a ghost now, haunting him as punishment for being the wrong kind of man. He should not have argued, rather should have been gentle, understanding of her inner turmoil. He would never be able to take back the words he had said in anger, the last words he had spoken to her before the accident.

Now, as he stood staring blankly at a woman that he neither knew nor cared to, he felt the hollow space within his heart pulse. Surely Camilla, wherever she was, had decided to punish him with these images, these emotions. He was alone, and every morning he woke with the reminder of it wrapped about his being like a foreboding, black cloud. It was a just punishment, he supposed, but that knowledge made it no easier to bear.

[rose whitney]

Sunlight trailed its warm gaze over her skin, casting an orange pall over the world behind her closed lids. Contentment tugged at her parted lips as she tilted her face towards the sun. Then the world shifted. A sudden memory came unbidden to her as swells of seawater rushed the shore, teasing her bare skin with its salt spray. She had set out to find inspiration but instead her mind offered a memory—a memory she had set aside and buried under the mundane coaxed out by a sudden sense of nostalgia that settled over her. Quick stills of image flitted through her conscious mind, an ever changing slide show set to fast forward. A man’s hand splayed in the sand, a pale thing among the immeasurable grains of amber, beige, and grey. A red blanket twisting and stretching as the wind carried it away. A wistful smile. Her face reflected back at her as a pensive scowl and set with righteous anger, against the speeding backdrop of the countryside outside her window. A lanky figure composed of shadows standing immobile before the illusory glow of Paris outside her balcony window. Another time and another life. One where she existed as someone altered by the grief of her grandfather’s death. It had been here, she remembered squeezing her lids tight with longing, surrounded by land, sea, and sky that she knew with a calm foreboding that she would soon lose Lucas.

Thoughtful yet irrational, Lucas had cajoled her to returning to France, believing that bringing her back to France would be the miraculous cure-all for all of her heartache. Afterward, he had tried to smile, as if the crook of his lips could be the band aid over the wounds of their relationship-- either too ignorant or too optimistic to acknowledge the fact they couldn’t survive this no matter how they tried.

Paris had bettered them in the beginning. Unaware of time and content to wander the streets of Paris, for a period of time they had changed and could thus stand detached from the concerns that held them down and plagued them. Gradually, her grief loosened its hold on her, releasing her from the apathy, the anger, and the bouts of depression that followed. Slowly, she was returning back to him, happy and sound.

Until one morning it unraveled on this very beach. He had awoken her early with a promise of a surprise. Slightly wary, she dressed quickly, terribly curious to know what he had planned for her. They drove for hours in a comfortable silence; her eyes covered with one of her scarves. She objected at first but he persisted. “Come on Rose, it’s a surprise. How am I supposed to surprise you if you see everything?”

Dread stirred in her stomach for an inexplicable moment when the car came to a stop, freezing her limbs still. Whether it was a certain feel in the air or the taste of it, even without the use of her eyes, Rose alarmingly realized where he brought her. The instant her skin met with the familiar sea air, anger ignited in her chest as she tore her scarf away from her eyes.

Against her will, her narrowed eyes immediately gravitated to the sight of her grandfather’s cottage; its familiar red door still cheerful and mismatched against the austere gray stones and solemn planks of wood. Unchanged since the first time she came as a curious girl of eleven and the last time she had stood unbalanced at its threshold. A fragile husk waiting the moment when the realization he was truly gone would come barreling through her like massive truck through a flimsy wooden shack.

When her lips didn’t give way to smiling, and her throaty laugh retreated behind unforgiving eyes, Lucas had frowned frustrated, shoving his hands into his pocket while the scuffed toe of his shoe angrily dug into the sand. “You don’ like it,” he spoke after an eternity, staring up at the flight of the gulls above. She could barely speak at first; barely summoned up the words to tell him of the war that waged within her. “I hate it. This is…it—it’s almost cruel. Why would you even bring me here?” she asked looking out towards the point where sky and sea melded into one infinite line. The accused flushed red to the tops of his ears yet said nothing. “Let’s just go,” he offered, his eyes betraying the hurt and frustration that his even tone hide well. Following silently behind, she took note of the curve of his hunched shoulders weighed down by an invisible burden that made him both bitter and vulnerable. He had been so buoyed by the thought that this would finally help heal her that he hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate that it wouldn’t and now he found himself in a despondent free-fall, falling to meet her.

The drive back had passed in heavy silence, but encased in their hotel room the words she held leaped from her mouth without a care. “You should’ve known I wasn’t ready!” “When will you ever be ready, Rose? ” “I-I don’t know! But it won’t happen just because you want it to! I don't want to be like this but I just am...” A weary sigh left his lips as his hand reached up to tiredly rub the back of his neck. “You can’t live like this forever Rose—I can’t! It’s driving me bloody insane. Maybe…maybe you should see someone,” he suggested resignedly after a long pause. She had frowned harshly at him then, twisting her face up in an incensed scowl as if he had suggested she become a prostitute. Rose hated the thought of therapists just as much as her mother vehemently hated the idea of their childhood dog gnawing through all of her favorite shoes. Before the grimace left her face, he promptly stood up and announced, “I’m going to go—go and take a walk or something.”

Dawn had begun its ascent on the horizon when he returned, his hair mussed, slightly unsteady as he strode through the door, his familiar scent mingled with heady tones of liquor and cigarettes and a hint of perfume. “Enjoy your walk? Did you find yourself a nice French girl or an American tourist to fuck?” she asked her tone harsh and accusatory fixing her gaze on his retreating figure walk to their balcony and stare down at the sleeping city. Touched by a rush of regret in the pit of her stomach, her teeth bit painfully down on her lower lip at her careless words but still she didn’t offer her regrets. Unsure, Rose took a hesitant step forward but quickly retreated. She couldn’t go to him. Not now. She didn’t know if her touch would recoil him, so she held herself, wrapping her arms in a self-embrace filled with an uncertainty and self-pity.

In her bed, she tried to fall asleep despite the waves of emotion that threatened to expose her to him. What was she doing to them? she thought to herself while she choked back on a silent sob. She didn’t stir from her uneasy slumber until he had climbed into bed with her, his bare back pressed onto her repentant hands. Happy for that simple pleasure, she nestled closer in his warmth. “Sorry…Love you,” she whispered into the muscled curve of his shoulder. Silence passed with the measured up and down of his chest. Ages later, he gruffly responded, “Love you too.” Without warning, he turned to her, arms clutching her tight, so tight they threatened to crush her. Soft lips, tasting of cigarettes and wine met her halfway, murmured one word that resonated in the weighty air between them. “Always.”

Resting her chin on her jean-clad knees, Rose pensively thought back to the vow she made to herself that night as Lucas quickly fell into a deep sleep. As her fingers traced the planes of his face unmarked by stubble, she silently promised him she would end this torment she had put them through. She would let him go to gain herself again and when she was better… maybe then they could be together. But if they remained as they were—swimmers losing the strength to stay afloat—she knew a distance would grow where neither could cross the divide and they would be lost forever to each other.

With time she returned back to Rose, the person she had always been beneath the anguish. Yet her plans hadn’t turned out the way she planned. Her lips furrowed at the unexpected shot of pain which jabbed her chest reminding her all too well what she had lost in the process of gaining herself. Regrettably, unlike her stories, her life couldn’t be unwritten, reworked, or torn up to please her no matter how fervently she wished it. It was a wonder she remained somewhat sane when her regret loomed up like a wave unceasingly threatening to overwhelm her.

Sighing quite loudly, she stood up, slapping distractedly at the grains of sand that clung to her jeans and hands. Free from debris, she stooped to grab her leather sandals, another sigh escaping her lips as she straightened her frame. Casting a final look towards the waters, she slowly turned to start the walk back to her cottage, abruptly halting her steps when she caught sight of a man, his blank stare fixed unseeingly on her.

For a moment their eyes met in the curious exchange of strangers when she recognized the stoic expression that never strayed too far from his blue eyes. Ewan. Thankful for the distraction from her memories, her free hand made the motion of a friendly wave while her bare feet made the short journey to where he stood. Honey poured into the warm smile she shot at him, easing over the bitterness that had shortly lined her features. “Has it really happened? Has Ewan Colbourne butcher extraordinaire really ventured out from behind the butcher counter, without my harassment no less?Tell me, did something happen to the shop?" Mock concern widened her blue eyes to childlike wonder and lent a somber air to her tone before her expression broke off into silent amusement.

OOC: ahh!!! sooo didn't plan to write so much but it just evolved into one long flashback and when i started nearing 2000+ then i knew i had to cut back. And it's still long! smh

[ewan colbourne]

The briny scent of the ocean filtered in to his senses as he breathed deeply, eyes held deliberately open to the sight before him. The waves rushed across the already-moist sand with the same steady roar that he had known as a boy. The ocean was, admittedly, not vastly different on one side of the world from another. The sane beneath his feet may have been a slightly different colour, the general landscape quite different, but the ocean itself still held that same scent, the one that had always brought him back to the place he called home.

Why had he come here? Surely, it could not have been to escape his memories, for they just as insistent—if not more so—here than they were anywhere else. The insistence of his past pounded against his weary skull; he knew that, were he to close his eyelids, he would see her laughing as she skipped through the waves or sleepily grinning at him as she lay on their blanket, sunlight playing against her smooth, dark skin. He could see her now, with his eyes open, but he fought the images, focusing on the waves that crashed and rolled, crashed and rolled. The rhythm was no longer comforting, but empty. The sight before him was mere proof that life would always go on for the world, no matter the losses that its people suffered.

Ewan turned his gaze away from its narrow-minded focus, not expecting to see anything out of the ordinary but finding her nonetheless. A stranger, or so he thought, but it did not take long for his assumptions to be shot down. She opened her mouth, sending forth warm, jovial words that seemed out of place here, where memories of his wife were too close, too painful. He needed to fight them off before he could have any sort of reasonable conversation. She should have known this. She should have left him alone, to fight his own battles. Instead, she spoke. “Has it really happened? Has Ewan Colbourne butcher extraordinaire really ventured out from behind the butcher counter, without my harassment no less? Tell me, did something happen to the shop?"

Had appearances no meaning, he might have walked away. But politeness had been ingrained in him at an early age, and he knew that it would be horribly rude to make someone else pay for his sore state of mind. So, he turned fully from the ocean and called his feet into motion. They obeyed, though grudgingly, carrying him to a spot that was near enough to sit and converse with her, this non-stranger named Rose who seemed, always, to be searching for something. He cared not what it was, for he had nothing to give. Nevertheless, he was curious. “It’s not such a shock, is it?” Ewan asked softly, lacing his fingers behind his head in a façade of nonchalance. “It’s my day off.”

She seemed amused, he noted, and he wondered at this. Was it so strange, for him to be out in the town? Did he truly work too much? The left corner of his mouth twitched at the thought. Well, of course he worked far too much. That was not particularly the issue. After all, what else was there to do when his life had ended along with Camilla’s? He was simply going through the motions now, pretending to be alive when the most essential parts of his soul had died not yet a year before. There was no true meaning in the life he led. What else was he to do but work and do everything in his power to push the memories of what had been to the back of his mind?

His fingers loosened their grip, hands coming to settle in the sand by the sides of his outstretched legs. His fingers combed through the warm sand, only to cease their motion mere seconds later as his mind conjured images of Camilla’s thick, black hair succumbing to a similar motion. He took a deep breath, looking over the horizon as he attempted to think of something to say. He had never been a particularly outspoken person, and the weight of his thoughts did nothing to help his thought processes. Finally, he forced out, in uneven, forced rhythm, “It’s a nice day today.”

With any luck, she would agree with him and take the reigns of the conversation. He had no particular fondness for leading.

||The length is pathetic... I apologise. I've been having trouble whipping him into shape.||