Sheek, sheek. Sheek, sheek

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surf stories

Sheek, sheek. Sheek, sheek.



Sheek, sheek. Sheek, sheek. (a short short story)


nusa fiction surf stories

Sheek, sheek. Sheek, sheek.

Somewhere in the south of the Bukit, Bali, a rugged sun-darkened-skin man saws the trunk of an imposing tree. The blade of his saw is barely half the length of the trunk’s diameter but he saws still. Back and forth, back and forth. Sheek,sheek. Sheek,sheek. Up in the sky the sun -quiet, quieter than quiet- bursts, shines and travels without moving. The top of the trees are greener than green and their shade fuller than full. The man is silent and the world around him is not silent. It is sheek, sheek. Sheek, sheek. Noiselessly, drops of sweat slide through his sculpted, tense arms. One hand leaning on the trunk, the other gripping the saw handle as it cuts through the wood fiber and the sap, going back and forth. Back and forth. Sheek, sheek. Sheek, sheek. Vroum, vroum. Vroum, vroum. The man stops. He looks up and slowly straightens up. The bule-surfer, sitting on his motorbike, a few meters away at the bend of the road, smiles at him through his sun glasses and points at his photo camera hanging from his neck while the bike goes -stillvroum, vroum. Vroum, vroum. The man assents with his head and stands upright, arms hanging down; his saw, smaller than small, dangling from his hand. The bule-surfer takes a picture, smiles again, squares his arm at a right angle at the elbow, closes his fist around air and motions his arm back and forth, back and forth. The man looks at the bule, looks down at the grass under his feet and looks back up at the bule. As the bike goes –still- vroum, vroum, vroum, vroum, the bule-surfer points out at the man’s saw, and motions his arm again 1

Sheek,sheek. Sheek, Sheek - d. l. cash

back and forth, back and forth. The man looks at the bule and then looks at the green below him and at the green around him. He looks at the patches of sky through the green around him and then looks at the saw that dangles from his arm. He looks back at the bule. The bule drops his arm and looks at the man. He then brings his arm behind the front of his bike and turns it off. The world is quiet now. Quieter than quiet. No vroum, vroum. No sheek, sheek. The bule takes off his sunglasses and in a low voice, still sitting on the bike, exchanges pleasantries with the man. Beautiful day Pak...So quiet here Pak... So beautiful here Pak... Have a nice day Pak... He puts his sun glasses back on, caresses his surf board hanging on the racks and vroum, vroum, starts the motorbike. The bule is already past the bend and off and away. It’s quieter than quiet again. The man then looks around his world of sunnier suns, bluer blues, greener greens and fuller than full shades and sees it and knows it beautiful. He then bends down, gets a tighter grip on the handle of his barely-half-the-length-of-the-trunk saw and starts sawing again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sheek, sheek. Sheek, sheek.