The Rolling Waves [Open Thread]
Nov 16, 2016 12:21:41 GMT -8
Post by Lucy Parr on Nov 16, 2016 12:21:41 GMT -8
The wind was fresh and cold, with the tang of salt in it. The roar of the waves was loud in Lucy's ears as the water crashed over the rocks below her. The sound was powerful, wonderful, fantastic! Lucy loved it. At times like this, she truly appreciated the incredible power of nature.
She came down here when she was tired, or stressed, or when she needed to think. Or sometimes, just because she felt like it. That was the beauty of living by the coast; you didn't need an excuse to go down to the beach. Lucy found the sight of the white-crested waves crashing against the stones awe-inspiring. It was also humbling; a reminder of how small she truly was in the grand scale of things. Whether she was here or not, the waves would still come in, they would still go out. It was oddly comforting in one way; somehow disturbing in another.
On a beach in a quiet little Cornish village during winter, Lucy felt confident that she could be absolutely alone with her thoughts, the wind and the seagulls- those that hadn't been driven inland by the autumnal gales.. Consequently, she felt absolutely no compunction about seating herself on a large black rock, strewn with bedraggled seaweed, and breaking out into song. There was a reason that a few of the villagers regarded her as not being all there, and not all of them had to do with her being a relative newcomer to the community.
The song was Amazing Grace, but rendered in Lucy's light mezzo-soprano at top volume, it resounded off the cliffs until the echoes overpowered her voice and rendered the original melody unrecognisable, and Lucy was forced to give up on maintaining any semblance of musicality. Her voice wasn't all that bad, usually, but she was certainly not one of the world's great singers, and a cappella had never been her strong suit. Only once the echoes had died away did Lucy become aware of the sound of footsteps on gravel behind her. Mortified, she turned slowly to see who it was.
She came down here when she was tired, or stressed, or when she needed to think. Or sometimes, just because she felt like it. That was the beauty of living by the coast; you didn't need an excuse to go down to the beach. Lucy found the sight of the white-crested waves crashing against the stones awe-inspiring. It was also humbling; a reminder of how small she truly was in the grand scale of things. Whether she was here or not, the waves would still come in, they would still go out. It was oddly comforting in one way; somehow disturbing in another.
On a beach in a quiet little Cornish village during winter, Lucy felt confident that she could be absolutely alone with her thoughts, the wind and the seagulls- those that hadn't been driven inland by the autumnal gales.. Consequently, she felt absolutely no compunction about seating herself on a large black rock, strewn with bedraggled seaweed, and breaking out into song. There was a reason that a few of the villagers regarded her as not being all there, and not all of them had to do with her being a relative newcomer to the community.
The song was Amazing Grace, but rendered in Lucy's light mezzo-soprano at top volume, it resounded off the cliffs until the echoes overpowered her voice and rendered the original melody unrecognisable, and Lucy was forced to give up on maintaining any semblance of musicality. Her voice wasn't all that bad, usually, but she was certainly not one of the world's great singers, and a cappella had never been her strong suit. Only once the echoes had died away did Lucy become aware of the sound of footsteps on gravel behind her. Mortified, she turned slowly to see who it was.