The Place They Go Part I

This is the beginning of my short story for the Narrative Project....

Robert Dante hates the way the tide turns red against the burning sun just before the world goes dark. Yet he likes to look at it sometimes, let the red sink in. He has a way in which his mind would wander, thinking about those waves and what lies beneath them. He stands at the end of the old brick bridge, riddled with cracks and eroded by the subtle slosh of the waves hitting against it. He never looks at the sunset for too long; he just glances here and there as he passes by. For some reason, he is afraid to look too long. The sun is blazing hot, and it frightens him.

He crosses over the bridge and into the street, where the market was set up with little stands of fruits and vegetables, all different colors. Watching the stone pavement carefully, he keeps his head low. As the little wooden sign engraved in the town’s name brushes against his shoulder, he thinks to himself: Camala is always set at sunset.

Perhaps it is the color of the sky, a consistent splice of colors he cannot comprehend. Perhaps, it is that feeling he gets as we walks the streets that forces that thought to stay in his mind. He feels paranoid by that sun; always setting and never going anywhere.

Camala is eerily quiet, but Robert Dante does not notice this. He closes his eyes and whistles, not realizing he is absently and thoughtlessly filling the silence. His echoes taunt the walls of the buildings around him, leaving their scrapes and marks on the walls from their repetitions.

He walks to one of the market stands, his favorite. The pomegranates are cut in halves to display what lies inside. He never eats them; He is just transfixed by their rich colors and exotic nature. He doesn’t look up at the shopkeeper, as he presumes is waiting on him. He nods his head in a general direction and leaves without a word, not taking his eyes off the floor.

Robert Dante checks his watch but forgets what time it is. He doesn’t mind though. He isn’t in a hurry.

Suddenly, a woman calls out to him. Her voice rings familiarity as she addresses him from afar. He shudders and continues on down the street.

But she insists. She follows him; he can feel it. He walks faster. So does she.

Their steps become in sync; a rhythm of predator and prey. He doesn’t look behind him, for the same reasons he fears that red. He continues forward.

“Sir!” she yells, “Where are you going?”

Reflecting on what she had just said, he tousles this question around in his thoughts. Where was he going: nowhere he could answer in a word. His legs took him places and his mind followed.

He stops, his back still towards her. Her steps catch up with him. She stays a few feet away, he can feel the distance between them.

“Sir. Where are you going?” her voice travels calmly to his ears, but the words are what frighten him. Robert Dante remains silent.

“Sir. Come sit with me and watch the sunset. It’s so lovely,” he can hear her smile.

His legs captivate him to stand there in the danger for a few more seconds, or at least he presumes they are. To his mind, the seconds are tangled with years, and he soon loses focus on the cobblestone, and he soon loses focus on why he waits. He stands, perhaps for seconds- years maybe.

Now his ears ring from the previously unassuming silence. They ring and ring. For a moment, he thinks he will go deaf.

Then, Robert Dante forces his legs to move. He continues to walk, and the woman does not follow.