It wasn't working out for him. Just like life, everyone seemed to be able to do it but him. He tried to move his hands faster over the cool sand, but he wasn't fast enough, or not enough of something. He didn't know what he was doing, and no one to teach him. Just like always. Just like life.

InuYasha was not a child good at containing his frustrations. Still, when he set to work on a task with this degree of dedication and single-mindedness, sometimes it took him a while to reach the limit of overwhelming frustration. He was reaching that limit now, for sure.

He only wanted to make a pretty palace, like where his mother had grown up. For his mother. But he was no-good and nothing, as usual. His strong hands-- even at eight years old he'd worked hard to make them strong-- kept breaking the delicate bridges and designs that his brain could envision, but his hands could not make a reality.

InuYasha wished that one day he would grow not only strong, but delicate, delicate enough to make gifts to his mother. But for now, limit reached, he cried out in frustration, stomped all over the pitiful excuse for a sand castle, and turned to play in the surf instead.