The Shell Collector

The Shell Collector
His wizened white beard bleaches in the sun as he slowly walks. His
small shuffling steps make tracks upon the dry sand as his wiry frame
drags along his bare, brown, weather-beaten feet. A seagull cries a
harsh lament overhead before landing upon a rock by the shore. The
hermit's creased face turns towards it and his sparkling eyes stare out
at the bird's beady ones from their surrounding of crinkled brown skin.
He does not stop from his laborious walking, but continues to shuffle
slowly towards the shore- each step taking him forward no more than
half and inch. He is in no hurry.
His brown, freckled skin is unadorned save for a pair of worn red
swimming trunks that have faded in the sunlight of a thousand skies.
The wispy grey hair upon his chest contrasts sharply with his chestnut
skin, like snow atop a mountain. His lips are pursed as if to whistle,
yet they do not emit a sound. Not a sound has passed his dry, cracked
lips for many a year. He leaves the silence absolute.
Gradually he moves away from his wooden shack, edging closer and
closer, with his lethargic movement, to the waves which gently caress
the shoreline. He scans the sand as he walks, his head moving slowly
from side to side, his eyes mere slits against the reflection of the
sun from the white sand. Each tiny step produces a rustle of sand,
which merges with the gentle lapping of the waves upon the shore and
fails to disturb the silence. There are no footsteps on the sand that
lies before him. He does not need company.
As he nears the water's edge he slowly pulls to a stop. He is
perfectly stationary. Then, every so slowly, he begins to bend his
knees. At first he appears to still be upright. It is only when his
hand touches the sand that it is apparent that he is stooping. He
straightens, his hand loosely holding something by his side. It is the
pattern of his days, his shuffling steps creating murals upon the
silent sands.
The sun sets on the horizon. A vast ball of orange flame being slowly
extinguished by the deep blue ocean. It's dying light shows the
silhouette of the hermit, stooping for the last time that day. The
seagull rests still upon the rock, undisturbed by the hermit's gradual
movement. The hermit has no pockets in his swimming shorts. As he turns
towards his wooden shack he puts the shells he has gathered into his
swimming shorts against the inner lining. He turns and his glittering
eyes take in the majestic sunset, bands of orange and gold progressing
to the rich, dark blue of the night sky. There are no clouds, only
stars and a bright full moon that casts its translucent glow across the
beach. The sun has disappeared over the horizon and the hermit turns
and begins to shuffle back towards his shack. His feet making murals
upon the sand.
The peace is shattered. The seagull flies off with a screech. A yelp
echoes off the hills. The tide rushes out. Footsteps scatter across the
sand. Shells are flung into a crazy pattern. The hermit is in his
shack. He had to run. He had to break the silence.
Beware the crab amidst the shells.