RETURN TO BLEAKPOINT - Day 1763

The sea had not changed, yet everything else had. After months away, I returned to Bleakpoint, now weathered by loss but drawn by a force I couldn't name. The wind howled, a hollow sound echoing through the empty lighthouse. The once-warm stone walls now felt like a tomb. I wandered the cliffs, searching for traces of her laughter, but only the distant cry of gulls answered.

The light still spun in its endless orbit. Cold, mechanical. I watched it flicker against the evening mist, a futile beacon to a world that no longer needed saving. The village spoke of strange occurrences—lights beneath the waves, whispers carried by the wind. They warned me, but it was already too late. The sea, as constant as ever, beckoned.

Inside the lighthouse, the ticking of the old clock kept time, though for what purpose, I didn’t know. Days blurred into nights. Memories twisted, becoming indistinguishable from dreams. I would wake, certain I heard her voice. I would run to the shore, but there was only the sea—endless and indifferent.

One stormy night, the wind screamed louder than I had ever heard. The lighthouse creaked, groaned, and for the first time, I felt it: the pull beneath the waves. I stood at the edge, the cliffs crumbling beneath my feet. And there, in the storm's chaos, I saw them—lights, deep below the surface, swirling and dancing. The wind pushed harder, but I didn’t resist.

Bleakpoint was never meant to be a place of refuge. It was a boundary, a threshold. And now, I had crossed it.

The lighthouse stood silent, its light cutting through the fog as it always had, though I now understood its deeper purpose. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something lived beneath the waves. On the surface, Bleakpoint was unchanged, but I could sense a tremor, a shift in the air.

I wandered the shoreline at dusk, the tide pulling at my feet. That night, I dreamt of her. She stood on the rocks, smiling, but her eyes—they were different, darker, as if they too had glimpsed the depths.

I woke with the taste of salt on my lips, and the whispers that had haunted my dreams grew louder. Each night I was drawn closer to the sea, unable to resist. The wind carried voices—hers among them, calling me to return. I had once believed the sea to be indifferent, but now I knew it was waiting.

The final night, the pull became irresistible. The storm raged, the ocean thrashing against the rocks with violent fury. I followed the voices to the shore, stepping into the water as the tide wrapped around me. The lights flickered beneath the waves once more—this time closer, brighter. I felt the cold weight of the ocean dragging me down, and I didn’t fight it.

In the silence beneath the storm, I saw her. She had become part of the sea, her form shimmering in the deep like a forgotten memory. I reached out, but the current pulled me further. As I sank, I realized: Bleakpoint was not a place of refuge. It was a gateway, and now, I had passed through. The sea welcomed me into its endless depths.

BLEAKPOINT - 1st place winner

Day 1

The car’s engine rears to a stop. Four doors excitedly swing open. Three pairs of short legs leap out of the backseat and clap their sneakers on a dusty, dirt road. Three pairs of small hands rip their bags full of their closest possessions from mangled holds of straps and seat belts, dropping them carelessly where their feet first land.  They scramble up a dirt path in a hurry; pitter-patters of small feet, though one just a little slower than the others.

This is my angel. She is so special. Such a beautiful mind, yet such a sickly little body. It is for her that we are moving to this secluded cliff top, crowned by a lovely lighthouse. We have put faith in the fresh airs and seaside remedies to help keep her out of bed sheets and on her feet, playing in her extravagant imaginary worlds. Her name is Kinsley, and she is just as much a blessing to the world as she is to our lives. This is all for you, my love.

Our hearts flourish with love for our children, my husband and I. They are like a bundle of balloons, brightly colored and tied tightly to silver strings. They are the happiness that fills the cavities of their parents' daily lives. Their simplicity amazes us, yet with every day they grew more in spirit and mind. Every day, they grow harder to hold; but with every passing second, we hold tighter. Though, we ultimately know that someday we will have to let them go, watching our latex-hearts disappear in the clouds.

The sun is close to touching the horizon and the sky’s canvas is beginning to be painted with faint orange watercolors. I can feel the warmth of the sun’s set from under the windshield, something new, strange—yet welcoming. My eyes and skin are accustomed to the sky being lined with grand concrete giants, eclipsing the sun, the warmth only comparable to this countryside's during the summer months--when the sun is highest. For the remaining months, the remaining seasons, he sits hidden behind the towering corporate offices while reflecting off the glass windows of yellow taxicabs. Hopefully, the sun in the sky knows that the tiny, every day sidewalk-crawlers aren’t waving hello or whistling at his beautiful glow, but rather for steel carriages with a mocking, bright-yellow coloring.

The sun uses fresh paintbrushes of all different sizes, dipping them in a pallet of yellows, oranges, and reds to paint the vast rolling countryside during dusk. If it were not for naturally-occurring sights like this, there would be no art—no paint brushes to compare with the set of the sun. The un-cut emerald fields, the undisturbed tall weeds, the hardly beaten dirt paths, these are what inspire the great artists whose masterpieces hang in the Metropolitan. As our mid-sized hatchback climbs and descends the countryside roads before we arrive at our new home, as does my heart. The dust that trails behind our car, standing in for that all-too-familiar cloud of toxic car exhaust from all the automobiles on the street, seems to unveil some kind of epiphany: something previously imprisoned beneath my flesh, bone and intellect. It is there: a natural component of my being, though my inner ear previously did not catch its cries for rescue, until this moment.  In this one simple piece of time, the last inch of some imaginary, scarlet-silk magician’s cloth reveals a tall, rectangular black box with latches on the side within my thoughts, leaving me wondering what I’ve been doing my whole existence. As I ponder this moment, I wonder what lies within that box, beneath the latches and wood.

The kids are taking it in much better. The amount of years they have spent in the concrete jungle have been short and sweet and their innocence is still quite preserved--so the rural green hills did not shake them up as much as it shook me. They have pictures books, or an occasional short chapter novel, that have taken them to the countryside world already. Kinsley’s nose is always damp from some text-description of a river-raft adventure, marvelous winter-snowball fights, or maybe just an educational short story about sea life. She has watched the white puffy clouds crawl across the blue skies from her backside, looking upward, in green valleys. She has deer-watched in thick forests, creeping cautiously to avoid noisy twigs.  She has climbed the rocky cliff-walls that line the canyon rivers without buying a single rope, helmet or climbing shoes. She has not actually been anywhere beyond the busy city; words on paperbound pages have taken her to all these remote places, and she tells her siblings all about her findings. My little scholar always has hair in her eyes, and one dress-strap off her shoulder--yet she will sassily dismiss her enemies with a few high-pitched words that leave the victims jaw-dropped. She will state a question's answer in a couple innocent sentences, versus the novels that philosophers write just to say the same. She has a head full of knowledge and wisdom, innocence in her laughs and love in her eyes. Seeing the beauty of the countryside, which she has already seen in her mind’s eye through wordy descriptions and silly illustrations, does not seem to move her much, or the scenes do so very quietly. This does not surprise me, however.

Since the moment we turned off the paved-gravel road onto the brown dirt path, the kids have been kneeing our seat backs with restless anticipation flowing through their legs and brains. The car has become quiet, except for the sounds of the little bodies constantly shifting around in the backseat to get better points of view. Away from the beeps, bruising bullies, and TV news stations playing nothing but the bad, the ugly, and the damn downright-depressing reports over and over, their wide eyes clearly express what their mouths will not. These few minutes become purely peaceful. All we can do in this moment is smile at each other, my husband and I. We exchange amused glances during the silence.

An extremely enthusiastic Parker soon cut the stillness. He said, “Mom, look, white birds!” Seagulls.

The outburst is followed by a series of amazed “woahs” and the buzz of some city-fly, a hitchhiker whom we unknowingly picked up. In their fascination of the gulls, none of the kids pay attention to the buzz, which suddenly stops when it flies into one of their gaping mouths. The sour expression that follows is nothing less than perfect. The car fills with laughter and lightens the mood to a blissful median between what we are leaving behind and what lies ahead of us. My husband’s hand creeps across the console in between our seats to grab one of my hands from my lap and pull it closer to him. His palm drops delicately onto my palm, and his fingers softly curl into their seats in the slits between my fingers. He has the warmest expression that gives me a sensation of hope--something more than just a feeling--yet it feels as if it could burn in my heart eternally. The blood in my veins skip down its flow and my heartbeat reclines to a peaceful pace. The green and brown countryside, gilded by the oranges of the sunset, pair with my senses and emotions to whisper through the air conditioner that this is a new start for us. For Kinsley, for our children, and for our lives we spend together. The black rubber tires beneath us became not just shoes for the car, but vessels of progress, grooved with hope and centered by a bittersweet silver lining. A tall, whitewashed lighthouse, dressed in cork-screw-curving red stripes and hatted with its Sunday best of a profound candle, whose light casts through darkness and fog. This is home.

Day 167

He holds my heart in his hands. The warmth of his rugged palms baptize my flushed cheeks with every embrace. He works daily with un-callused hands to build the life we live, and the man that work has made him is whom I call my husband. His carpentry skills measure up perfectly with his talent with the pen, with the strings, and with the flesh. When we parked our car on this cliff, unlocked these lighthouse doors, and startled the previous owners, it lacked our touch. Bare walls, the odors of the sea, and nothing else. So we built.

            My fingers glide up wooden rails as my feet follow up the steps. They are finished with coats of polyurethane from the artistic hand of my husband. The wood is smooth and my hand slides with elegance. When my bare feet touch the steps, when my hands grip the handholds, I can’t help but smile. It is as if I am touching his skin as I climb the lighthouse stairs. I am his biggest fan, and fondest not-so-secret admirer.

            A little above the midpoint of the stair’s height, an eye level, arrow-head shaped window allows the climber to catch a glimpse of the highest point of drop from the cliff below. What lies beyond is nothing but ocean. From this viewpoint, the water looks like a pool-- somewhere our children can dip into right from the grass. Even wandering animals know, however, that this is not one of those modern American backyards. There are no unattended glasses of ice and lemonade, topped out with an umbrella, sitting on a poolside table to lap into their thirsty mouths. It’s a cragged drop off that ends in mutilation, not urban paradise. I have seen it from here many times, sometimes crowned by a few weed-flowers. Today they are plentiful.

            I see a baby blue, youthful dress resting on the shoulders of my Kinsley as she walks in her black clogs through the grass and weeds over to a ring of flowers. Her legs are white with her favorite leggings and her lips move with lyrics that she sings to herself. She loves all kinds of music. Somehow, I know she dreams of musicals and operas. When she sings like this, her sweet voice reaching the highest notes, the tree trunks and the blades of grass flow along with her words, left and right, so gentle and calm. I watch as the world dips so boldly in all directions and reaches so high toward the clouds.

            A breeze rolls under the notes of Kinsley’s song of such divinity, in an obeying undertone. As far as my thoughts and opinions are concerned, the breeze has little effect on this world around Kinsley, except to lift the ends of her hairs to wave along with the surrounding harmony. This breeze sets the optimum merciful summer temperatures, but it’s her notes that make the world so lovely and the weather so clear and calm. The wind is pure force, but it is this song that guides its direction, intention, and ferocity—so commanding, yet so sweet. Her pitch is like the red lettering in a Bible, though the voice of a goddess instead, to which every soul is captured and entranced by.

            A midsummer day’s dream, feeling a bit of the breeze through the window, dipping down to my ankles and twirling up the round scale of my body and landing inside my ears like loose pillow-feathers. It wraps around me like a fairytale whirlwind, carrying the notes of Kinsley’s song. It nudges the lacey ends of my day dress and sends slight goose bumps up my thighs. The breeze reaches out with its warm fingertips and shuts my eyelids, while it rustles my bangs in silly mirth and playful tease.

I find myself beginning to sway as well, to the elegance of Kinsley’s lyrics. I can’t quite make them out, but that is largely irrelevant. I feel as if the actual flow of time has stopped. Wrist watches, wall clocks and Big Ben all stop their ticking, though the world still pulses with life. Appointments are forgotten and all mouths stop their moving. Every ear perks up to listen to my Kinsley, as she skips and dances around on her emerald stage. Her microphone is the whispering wind. Her spotlights—bright sun rays, illuminating her blue eyes to be more magnificent and complex than sapphires, or rather raging whirlpools of ocean water. They do not spill, however, fortunate to the stiches that hold my heart together: they need no more tearing. My eyes remain closed the whole time. I seem to be hanging by a moment suspended in the tick-tocking of time, in the most peaceful meaning of that phrase possible. I am still lost in my childhood, still standing on the sidewalks of London, eyes on Big Ben’s halted hands, though my mind focuses on the echoing song, while still diving into Kinsley’s magnificent eyes, all in the same moment…

Day 645

            All I hear is sirens. All I see is blood. The sky is red and the grass is brown. The trees are dead and the gold on the hilltops has melted. The roots choke the rest of the world and drag all life down to the depths. I can barely see the dying light from our lighthouse’s candle gleaming from under a deep crack in the earth. The sirens keep getting louder. I cannot find any of my family. Any of our neighbors. The sirens keep getting louder. The static on the radio is louder. It’s just static. It’s just static. It’s only static. I only hear static. The sirens are piercing. The static is piercing. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. Static on the radio, static on the TV. The world is red I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. All I hear is sirens. All I see is blood. The sky is red and the grass is brown. The trees are dead and the gold on the hilltops has melted. The roots choke the rest of the world and drag all life down to the depths. I can barely see the dying light from our lighthouse gleaming from under a deep crack in the earth. The sirens keep getting louder. I cannot find any of my family. Any of our neighbors. The sirens keep getting louder. The static on the radio is louder. It’s just static. It’s just static. It’s only static. I only hear static. The sirens are piercing. The static is piercing. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. Static on the radio, static on the TV. The world is red I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one left. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I’M THE