Three children search for shells on a beach
They cast long shadows like trees without foliage in the dwindling light. When they started out, several hours before, they were hugged closely by their shadow-selves, the limbs and flapping clothes familiar and faithful companions. Now they were extended from themselves, drawn out away and up the sand from where the water lapped at their ankles. The stifling heat from earlier in the day had turned to benign air that cooled tight, droughty skin.
At some point, the three strangers had established an agreement that the shells meet unspoken standards — great swirling patterns, delight with their shape, possess satisfactory heft. Those that did not inspire were flung back into the sea — an invitation to try again, over the course of generations, to meet the standards of ancestors since grown old, passed on, and been forgotten.
There was no malice or carelessness in the selection and heaving process, but an innocent empathy for some shells as inferior. It occurred to the eldest of the children that shells do not aspire to be permitted or tolerated by human children. Inspecting this tangent closer in her mind, the child was confronted by the frightening thought of how many individual grains of sand she now stood upon. What could it be, a billion, a trillion? What was the word for a billion-trillion? When did the sand end and what truly anchored her to the earth?
She was removed from these uncomfortable ideas by one of her companions presenting a specimen for her consideration. It was pale lavender, arcing drastically but in perfect symmetry. It had angular ridges that lent it weight and depth. The base thickness gave it personality, she thought, or at least some authenticity. It was no doubt a special one, possibly a shell of some standing in its community.
The three children passed it between themselves, brushing renegade sand out from within the ridges. After some talk, it was decided that no one would keep the shell, and that instead they would build a home worthy of its eminence. They set about the task, three half-naked blurs of wheeling arms uplifting the sand until they had erected a crude tower about four feet high.
At the apex they embedded their prize shell, the youngest prodding it to make sure it was fixed. This was done to draw attention to their discovery. To share it with other admirers of beauty and elegance.
Then they returned to finding one that was even lovelier — one whose narrative was more compelling. Their search became no more urgent as the sun disappeared under the horizon. These were just shells after all, and it was not possible to inspect them all.
