from that glint and everything it represented.
It lay half open in the sand, and he reached for it. He found that his crudely shaped hand was unable to grasp it. It slipped through his fingers
(like sand, isn't that just too sick for words)
and for a moment despair threatened to seize him once more. He pushed it away, determined not to allow that to happen. There was no way that he was going to be so close to the locket and everything it stood for, his one link to humanity, and fail.
Burning with furious intensity, he closed his hand. He remembered the story about the sculptor who claimed that the secret to his art was simplicity itself: all he needed to do was chip away everything that didn't resemble the image he had in his mind. Marko now followed that same philosophy. He visualized exactly what he wanted his hand to look like. He didn't stop until he could see it perfectly, and then he willed the vague, mittenlike appendage at the end of his hand to mimic it. Fingers began to form, and they were still made of sand, but they were clear and distinct and—most important—hard. Tentatively, almost afraid to find out whether it would work, he reached down and gasped with joy as the newly created fingers deftly picked up the locket. He raised it so that it was at eye level and gazed at the image of the smiling, young girl within.
In a gravely, raspy voice, Marko said softly, "Penny."
Just speaking her name aloud was enough to galvanize his determination. He had been given a second chance at survival. More, he started to realize that he had been thinking of his status all wrong. Yes, he was a freak, but that didn't mean that it made him less than a man, less than human. If he could pull himself together, so to speak, he could become far more than either. Penny's picture, her name said aloud, the thought of what he could accomplish on her behalf, provided all the incentive he required; indeed, all that and more.
Marko became emboldened, as if he were truly alive for the first time in his existence. He had no internal organs, no blood, no heart. But the locket substituted for that most vital of organs as he clutched it against his chest tightly and drew strength from it. Willing himself to stand, he started to rise, the sand beneath him coming together to form rudimentary legs.
I'm doing it, I'm doing it!
He celebrated his success too soon, as the sandy columns proved inadequate to support his weight. He crumbled like the tower of a child's sand castle. Moments earlier that would have been enough to cause him to break down in despair, but it was now no longer the case. He was convinced he was going to triumph over his present circumstances. That it was simply a matter of when, not if. Marko took a mental step back and envisioned once more what he wanted the lower half of his body to do. The legs reformed, this time more dense than before. Quickly, before he could topple once more, he willed feet to come into existence. They did so, supporting him and providing balance where he'd had none earlier.
He stayed there for a time, just making certain that he could keep this up. He didn't want to rush his first step. He had plenty of time. After all, no one ever saw sand on a beach in a hurry, did they? Human rules and priorities no longer applied to him. He was of the earth now. Immortal? Quite possibly. Like unto a god? Too soon to say, but it couldn't be ruled out.
He took an unsteady step forward. It was difficult recapturing muscle memory when one didn't have any actual muscles anymore, but he was going to do his best. He couldn't help but think he probably bore a strong resemblance to Frankenstein's monster, lurching forward with his arms outstretched to help maintain his balance, staggering one step at a time. That was only temporary, though. Soon he would be walking relatively normally. He would sculpt his body so that it was indistinguishable from what it had been before. Yet anyone who thought that he or she could
It lay half open in the sand, and he reached for it. He found that his crudely shaped hand was unable to grasp it. It slipped through his fingers
(like sand, isn't that just too sick for words)
and for a moment despair threatened to seize him once more. He pushed it away, determined not to allow that to happen. There was no way that he was going to be so close to the locket and everything it stood for, his one link to humanity, and fail.
Burning with furious intensity, he closed his hand. He remembered the story about the sculptor who claimed that the secret to his art was simplicity itself: all he needed to do was chip away everything that didn't resemble the image he had in his mind. Marko now followed that same philosophy. He visualized exactly what he wanted his hand to look like. He didn't stop until he could see it perfectly, and then he willed the vague, mittenlike appendage at the end of his hand to mimic it. Fingers began to form, and they were still made of sand, but they were clear and distinct and—most important—hard. Tentatively, almost afraid to find out whether it would work, he reached down and gasped with joy as the newly created fingers deftly picked up the locket. He raised it so that it was at eye level and gazed at the image of the smiling, young girl within.
In a gravely, raspy voice, Marko said softly, "Penny."
Just speaking her name aloud was enough to galvanize his determination. He had been given a second chance at survival. More, he started to realize that he had been thinking of his status all wrong. Yes, he was a freak, but that didn't mean that it made him less than a man, less than human. If he could pull himself together, so to speak, he could become far more than either. Penny's picture, her name said aloud, the thought of what he could accomplish on her behalf, provided all the incentive he required; indeed, all that and more.
Marko became emboldened, as if he were truly alive for the first time in his existence. He had no internal organs, no blood, no heart. But the locket substituted for that most vital of organs as he clutched it against his chest tightly and drew strength from it. Willing himself to stand, he started to rise, the sand beneath him coming together to form rudimentary legs.
I'm doing it, I'm doing it!
He celebrated his success too soon, as the sandy columns proved inadequate to support his weight. He crumbled like the tower of a child's sand castle. Moments earlier that would have been enough to cause him to break down in despair, but it was now no longer the case. He was convinced he was going to triumph over his present circumstances. That it was simply a matter of when, not if. Marko took a mental step back and envisioned once more what he wanted the lower half of his body to do. The legs reformed, this time more dense than before. Quickly, before he could topple once more, he willed feet to come into existence. They did so, supporting him and providing balance where he'd had none earlier.
He stayed there for a time, just making certain that he could keep this up. He didn't want to rush his first step. He had plenty of time. After all, no one ever saw sand on a beach in a hurry, did they? Human rules and priorities no longer applied to him. He was of the earth now. Immortal? Quite possibly. Like unto a god? Too soon to say, but it couldn't be ruled out.
He took an unsteady step forward. It was difficult recapturing muscle memory when one didn't have any actual muscles anymore, but he was going to do his best. He couldn't help but think he probably bore a strong resemblance to Frankenstein's monster, lurching forward with his arms outstretched to help maintain his balance, staggering one step at a time. That was only temporary, though. Soon he would be walking relatively normally. He would sculpt his body so that it was indistinguishable from what it had been before. Yet anyone who thought that he or she could
Similar Books
