Wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. The seagull opened his beak and hissed his disapproval, beat his wings once, twice, three times to increase his speed, to try to escape. Wrong colors. Wrong smells. Stupid wrong place.
He didn't know where he was, but he knew it was not where he should be. He glared down at his shadow racing beneath him, but it wasn't having any better luck than he was. It grew larger and smaller as the land shot up and hollowed out, and always it was shrouded in green.
Wrong green.
It was the wrong green- it was a soft, heathery green, with hints of purple, completely lacking the luminous translucence he was accustomed to. It rippled and shimmered in the wind much like the waves of his beloved home, but the seagull was not fooled. Nor was he fooled by the way this place was as featureless as the ocean; it was not his ocean. It was not anyone's ocean. It was a strange place, and he did not like it.
No salt. No fish. Stupid place. Stupid storm.
There was no evidence of the storm now- just unbroken miles of that subdued green. No sand, no rocks, no water shining between the stalks. There was no movement at all, save that incessant ripple chasing itself out past the horizon. The seagull let himself wheel a few times, trying to collect his thoughts.
Home! Home! Home! he cried aloud, but there was no one to answer him but his own echo.
No comments:
Post a Comment