Waves crash rhythmically against the shore and drops of salty water sting your face. The sand stretches on for miles, and bits of plastic and broken shells dot the coast. Pebble-gray seagulls fly overhead, forming intricate patterns in the sky. The long grass lining the edge of the beach sways calmly and boats glide across the water in the distance. Your sisters' shrieks are submerged under the roaring wind and your mom and aunt's voices fade into the background. Behind you, a pink sunset blooms across the sky like watercolor paint spreading over paper, with hints of inky blue darkness in the background. After a day of storms, the ocean is violent and you stand several feet away, afraid of getting swept into the vast expanse of swirling water. As the sky darkens, and the moon begins to peek out of the clouds, crabs come out to scuttle across the beach like giant spiders, sinking into pools in the damp sand. Your sister bends down and cups a small crab in her palm, watching it scramble up her arm. Covering your ears to drown out the roaring sea, you collapse onto the ground next to her and dig your scratched hands into the sand. “It’s getting dark,” you note internally. You’d been at the beach for hours; every time the activities started to dwindle down, your mom found some other way for you to occupy your time. Sandcastles, surfing, and, most recently, searching for shells. Drops of water flung out of the ocean settle on your face and slowly drip down like salty tears. Stars speckle the night sky. “Get up!” Your sister calls out in your direction. “You haven’t even found anything yet!” Haven’t even found anything yet. The words ring in your ears, a dull tone sounding over and over and over. “And never will,” you mentally add to her statement. “Come on! It’s easy!” She holds out her cupped hands to reveal 2 broken sand dollars, a tiny starfish with a missing limb, and an assortment of little grey shells. “Fine,” you say, aloud this time. Too tired to lift yourself from the sand, you start small by digging little holes into the surface of the beach. Suddenly, your searching fingers brush against something smooth buried under the sand. Curious, you grasp the object and bring it up to your eyes. “A shell!" You remark, turning it over, inspecting it for cracks or flaws. However, you find none. Excited to have found a perfect shell, you enthusiastically show it to your sister. "Cool," she mumbles, barely looking up from the castle she's carefully constructing in front of her. You ignore her uninterested reaction. The shell is a polished cotton candy pink with dark orange zig-zags running down the sides. Brown dots the color of coffee dapple the edges; it's tipped with a small swirl. It fits neatly into your hand, light and glossy. Jumping up, you sprint back down the beach, stumbling as your feet smack the frigid sand. You halt to a stop when you reach the edge of the beach, breathless. Night has fallen completely, and the only light is that of your flashlight and the moon. As you wait for your family, you fidget with the shell. I found the perfect souvenir from my trip, you think, satisfied. Lying on your back, you gaze drowsily up at the constellations. The ocean has lost its memory of the recent storm and now rests calm and peaceful. You slowly trudge down the lonely street leading away from the beach. Although it is late and you're exhausted, you're reluctant to leave. Clutching the shell in your fist, you swing your arms back and forth, so lost in thought that you almost don't notice as the shell slips swiftly out of your hand. You watch as if in slow motion as the shell tumbles onto the concrete.
I wrote this last year, it was my first attempt at writing in second person.
