Sandby R. Mathes, High Ridge, MOThe moon rose slowly over the ocean, rippling what others called water, but what Jessy called just another useless element. He walked along the shore, kicking at the sand, shoving his toes into it as he walked. Obvious-ly, he had forgotten his marching band days in which he had been programmed to march with his toes up in a fashion that was quite uncomfortable. Of course, that was back when music meant something to him, but now nothing fit that bill. He wasn't depressed. He thought he was too strong for that, but something was wrong; he tended to blame it on a chemical imbalance. Slowly, he was losing his memories, the ones he had of a halfway decent childhood. He had short-term memory loss too, for he had forgotten to eat for the past few days.Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered anymore, except the sand. It was the sand that was there for him when nothing else was. The sand was the only thing that changed to accommodate him, and he recognized it for what it was.He sat on the wet sand which he thought had been made in Heaven just for him, and dug his hands into the pliable substance. He quickly dug a hole for no reason except for something to do. He traced patterns in the sand and was disappointed that his masterpieces would be erased with the tide. For some reason, it didn't bother him as much as he thought, because he knew that one day he too would be erased without being missed. Voices floated through the air toward him, speaking of movies and other things he had forgotten about. Carefully, he stood. He didn't feel like seeing anything else living, so he quickly walked in the other direction toward home, which was no more than a rock, and a good night's sleep. 1