"The Hermit" by Mark Anthony SmithThe waves crashed, drowning out the crunch of pebbles beneath my feet. It was bitterly cold and I was alone. I hadn't slept and my beard was a tangle like the stuff washed ashore. There were bits of discarded fishing tackle, broken shells and dried out seaweed along the shore. I straightened my woolen hat as my eyes narrowed.
The sun glinted off the smallest shell. It was a cream and bluish helix that had been smoothed by the waves. The horizon was vast but far off. I felt small. I pulled my collar up and walked over to the shell. Picking it up, it felt smooth and fragile. Yet it was a solid structure. I listened to the sea. "You are a broken man. A shell of a man. Your ancestors crawled from the sea. Yes! From the sea you came and to the sea you must return." It rushed with an age old wisdom. The knowledge of the moon and the tides. I thought about never feeling rooted. I have always drifted. I removed my hat and coat. I felt small and inconsequential in this big wide world. The shell beckoned me. I succumbed. I crawled inside and felt at home. I was at peace as I waited for the tide to turn.
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