On holiday at the beach just now, and wrote this at about 4am while walking along the sand at low tide at sunrise.
As she sat on the wall, looking out over the beautiful beach - untouched by others at this time in the morning - Ella couldn't help but wish she had a story.
The soft sighing of the ocean brought calm to her less-than tortured artistic soul. The waves crept up the shore, the sea foam caressing the sand. Ella could still feel the tiny grains of sand from the walk here that were caught between her toes.
She could feel the raw power of the sea, contained for now in the soft pastels of the sunrise. Max was like the sea, a strong and wild yet beautiful force of nature.
Max had a story to tell; the story of her life and her Flock. All her trials and troubles gave her a tale to tell, a reason to live. What other reason have we got than to pass on stories, lessons we've learned? Ella knew Max's life was hard, and that being stolen away and experimented on as a child was an awful thing to happen, but she couldn't help herself being envious of the wings, and the adventures.
The sea left beautiful burrows on the sand, like a sculptor carving a unique work. The footsteps she had made this morning caught Ella's eye. She had left a pattern in the sand too - as would everyone who came on this beach. Everyone had a story to tell.
Ella hopped down off her perch and placed her foot on the sand once more, letting her toes dig in.
Now, she could live her story. And if she did it right, her tale would be a beautiful work of art.
Because there's nothing you can leave behind quite like footprints in the sand.
