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The Creative Process

September 9, 2015

He lies face-up, half covered in sand, slowly retaining consciousness. The grains of sand crunch between his teeth. His tongue feels like a dried up sponge. He wiggles his fingers and toes. At first, they feel stiff as fossils, but begin to loosen up with their movement. He can feel dried blood in the back of his nostrils. He turns over to his side and his back cracks and pops all down his spine. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself up to his knees, then slowly and gingerly to his feet.

The sun disappears behind a large white cloud. He is grateful for the shade. He tries to let out a groan but nothing comes out. The sound gets caught in his dry throat.

The waves of the ocean push the air over and through him. The beach is desolate as the apocalypse. He turns and walkis up the beach and climbs up to the top of the bluff. All the leaves, every piece of tall and short grass, every flower pedal is brown and/or withered. He searches to spot something, anything with color. Leaves crumble at his touch. He feels as though he soon will do the same, starting wit his tongue. He imagines it turning to dust and blowing out of his mouth and disappearing into the breeze. There must be some kind of life. He can feel it.

Finally, he notices a faint red color hidden at the base of a tall flower, beneath its brown pedals. He touches it hesitantly, afraid it too will whither. Is his mind playing tricks on him, or is the red becoming more pronounced with his touch? Instinctively without thought, he begins to pull the flower up to reveal its roots. As he pulls, he quickly discovers more color hidden beneath the dirt. He pulls until a full, colored flower stands above the ground. The dead top flower falls off and withers into dust. He tries this same process with the neighboring flowers and discovers the same result. Very gently, he continues this until the bluff is filled with color. Then, he walks away, doubting the results will ever be duplicated.

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