Messages in Bottles

At first, they have only one function; they hold the wine, usually a red of varying vintage. They don't think much about this.

When they are empty and worthless to their makers, they are his. He arranges them on the beach in great green-glass piles. They become splashes of color, homes for crabs, tiny fragments to be polished by waves. A thousand myriads of uses, a multiplicity of purposes. It hurts, sometimes; creation is always painful. However, when they think about this - and they do think, then - they do not have regrets.

Better to be destroyed for love than forgotten.

And the Sound of Waves

It was not easy. Santa Claus had reindeer and a sleigh. Witches had magic flying broomsticks. But the Sandman had no options but walking. There was a long, slow slog to each house that needed his attention and a longer return trip.

And now this. Always this.

The Sandman ignored them for the time being and pushed inside his little bungalow. He dropped his empty sack on the pile and went to fetch the wheelbarrow.

"Beachfront property," he mumbled, trundling out to the comatose sunbathers, "is more trouble than it's worth." Gentle snores emanated from the rolling dunes of sand.