The Cliff by the Sea

The Cliff by the Sea by Blake Sinclair The wind howled as it blew snow across the desolate seaside cliff. A lone man stood there staring out at the sea. He watched the waves of the ocean crash against the rocks below. He had followed a dream. A dream that had lead him across the world, that had become his only goal. He had followed it faithfully, had forsaken all that he had once held dear to chase his dream. He had grown old and tired and weary from his quest. He now stood on a cliff staring out to sea, for that is where his dream had brought him. His dream had brought him here to die.

The man stood as the bitter cold wind slashed at him. He felt it’s sting, but it was not enough to move him. His dream was the only thing that could truly bring him pain or pleasure now. He looked down to the rocks below and a single tear ran down his cheek. His dream had betrayed him. It had eroded his soul and his body. It had taken everything he could give it. It had become his only meaning. Now his memories mocked him. He had always been laughed at and ridiculed by those who knew about his dream. He had ignored them. They had never glimpsed anything beyond the gray reality of their world. Their ghosts mocked him now. They haunted the cliff and their laughter rang in his ears.

He was alone. There was nothing here. His dream was nothing but a wisp of fog before the morning sun’s harsh light. He turned away from the sea, and slowly he walked back. Back to the ruins that stood on this cliff, an ancient lighthouse had stood here. All that remained was a few stones. He walked past them numbly. The cruel winds lashed at him as he walked away from the cliff by the sea.

He stopped and looked at the lights of the town ahead of him. There were people there. Happy people who shut out the wind and snow and cold. People who laughed and sang and lived quiet little lives. He could not go to them. He was not one of them. He had seen something outside his little life. He had seen the reflection of his dream in the still waters of a lake across the world from here. He had caught the briefest glimpse of his dream as he turned to face it on that day so long ago. He had run after it until he had no strength left. That was the last day of his little life. That was the day his world had shattered to make room for his dream. He had lived his dream ever since.

His dream roamed the earth’s corners. He had followed. He had hunted through tomes and grimores. He had asked wise men and sages of forgotten lore. He had gathered legends and stories. In the end, he had nothing but his dream. But ever did that dream elude him. Even the guardians of knowledge scorned his dream. They held the words of the stories, but not the magic. They told him his dream was fable and myth. They ignored the magic at their fingertips in favor of their little lives. He had searched dispite them. He had only a dream, but in a dream lies magic.

The banshee wind pushed him towards the town, away from the cliff by the sea. It chilled his tired bones and weary blood. He was worn out. He had fought everything to arrive here, and found nothing. He let the wind push him towards the town. If he forgot his dreams he could join them. He could live a normal life. He let the wind guide him away from the cliff by the sea. The wind whispered to him. If he gave up his dream he could be happy with a life in the town. His dream had never fed him when he hungered. It had never made his nights less dark, or less lonely. It had only lured him onward. He had suffered to chase something that had been only a dream.

He looked back towards the sea. Only a night before he had seen that cliff as he slept, and his dream had waited there for him. It had stood upon that rocky outcropping and beckoned him. He turned back from the town and felt the wind’s fury hammer his face. He saw the sun’s first feeble newborn rays break above the horizon. He had waited through the entire darkness of the winter’s longest night. He ran towards the rising sun.

He ran back to the cliff by the sea. He ran through the icy daggers of the winter wind. He ran through the ache of his own weary body. He ran towards the only thing he had left. He ran towards his dream. He cried out his defiance of the world’s cold uncaring grip. He denied the mocking and scornful derision of those who were afraid to believe in anything more than their eyes and ears could sense. As he topped the cliff by the sea, he stood triumphant. The wind tearing at him, the sky dark. He closed his eyes to the harsh reality and stepped forward to meet his dream.

The man fell. His dream did not spare him. No power granted him wings or flight. He fell as the relentless earth pulled him towards itself. Behind his closed eyes he soared like a mighty eagle. He saw his dream standing upon the ethereal clouds, and he flew towards it. As he reached the misty perch, he hit the rocks. And he dreamed no more. And thus perished the last of the unicorn hunters.