The Creative Process


He drags the damp stick back and forth. So caught up in his task he barely hears the cry of gulls, hawking screeches that split the serenity of waves rumbling in repetitive frustration.

He works tirelessly, scarring the wet sand beneath his feet. Forging the lines and slashes that once were unfamiliar but now mean everything. Carving, till his fingers are raw and grains of fine sand coat his skin.

He stands back, his skin smelling of the ocean, admiring his labour lying there before him:


Then the sea surges forward, hungrily obliterating everything.

Smiling, he begins anew.


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