Shell

He didn't know why he'd driven to the coast, except that he hated the water and thought it might provoke him somehow (get him to take action ... poke at him like a toad). "Team Beach Idiots gains a plus one," he hissed, looking around at the others, wondering why so many make mindless frolicking a top priority while the world is gasping for breath and going away. "This 'Eff Off, Joy Abiding' mood of yours is not helping," his brain said and, for the umpteenth time within a 30-second range, he resented the hell out of these wise insights and whatever pain-in-the-ass higher self kept sharing them. He had worried at the lock of his life for decades, fumbling around trying to guide it, fix it, right the sinking ship ... all before it occurred to him that he had lost the both the key and the whole point somewhere. Hopeless cause. Pointless exercise. These were the labels now; these were the bumper stickers everybody could read as he drove off into the sunset. "So, tell me what to do, O Polluted Rush of Shark-infested Knowledge," he shouted into the wind, looking out at the sea. "Lay it on me, Cesspool of All Beginnings!" And a wave rushed in, soaking his shoes, socks, and pants up to the calf muscle, leaving behind it a perfect shell. Dazzling in the sun, it winked up at him from the sand, exactly the size and shape as the palm of his hand. "Are you freaking kidding? Really?" he muttered, reaching down to take hold of the thing and sighing as he raised it to his ear. Almost an hour later, a woman hunting for clams asked him if he was all right, putting a blanket over him to soothe his tears, and offering to call someone; he shook his head "no" - giving her a smile and sincere thanks for her kindness. The shell had told him everything, and there was beauty in the pain of his misery coming undone.