Note from the editor: This story hits so well in every area. The theme, character, and prose were all solid. I knew before I was a page into the story that this story had to place.
Crazy
The competitor's job was to write a story based off this song; the music and the cover image.
Everyone called me a madman.
Maybe I was. In a world where insanity reigns, everything appears backward, reflected out of a funhouse mirror. Mad is sane, sane is mad, good is bad, left is right, the whole world turned upside-down. It’s enough to make a man crazy, I suppose.
You see, they thought me a madman because I believed they’d gone too far. Their inventions had become abominations, their creativity an obscenity.
To put it bluntly, the world was full of bad people doing bad things. At this point, Earth was irredeemable. It had it coming.
The world deserved to drown. It needed a cleansing. I would be the one to do it.
Anyway, it was only a matter of time before the world destroyed itself. I was just pushing the hands of the clock forward a little bit.
How, you ask?
Simple.
Much as the world may try to deny it, there’s another level of reality beyond what mortal men can see. Call me magical, or supernatural, or whatever you like if that helps you understand it. To order waves and command storms is my special gift. Water moves when and where I tell it to. The ocean is my playground.
They say that long ago the Creator wiped the slate clean and started anew, causing the seas to rise and the heavens to spill over.
Not a bad idea. I figured I could do the same thing myself – not on such a large scale, of course, for that is unfortunately a bit beyond my ability, but a few tsunamis targeted at the most populous areas on the planet ought to fully and completely render the planet an apocalyptic garden bed ready for replanting.
And then she came.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I went down to the old stone quay to paint about once a week, if not more. Whenever I could, I slipped away and spent an hour or so alone with the salt breeze and the beautiful, ever-shifting seascapes.
But I’d never seen Crazy Basil down there before.
I saw him as I came along the path through the dunes and stopped, surprised. His tall, limber frame was silhouetted against a gray sky, and even with the waves roaring, I could dimly hear him muttering.
Well, maybe I should have gone back home. Mom did say not to talk to strangers, but Crazy Basil doesn’t really count. He’d haunted the town since before I was born, and everyone said he was perfectly harmless. He slept on stoops and begged from tourists, and the rest of the time, I had no idea what he did, but neither did anyone else.
So I didn’t budge. I had all my equipment with me and I’d finally managed to find an hour not taken up by school or work – I might as well paint, Basil or no Basil.
Besides, maybe Basil could use a friend. The look I saw in his eyes sometimes reminded me of the way Oreo looked when we found him on the side of the road. Sure, Basil’s not a dog, but I think he needed to be rescued all the same.
So, I shrugged my backpack up higher on my shoulders and marched down the sand to the quay. “Hey Basil!”
He whipped around and stared at me, his eyes big and white in the middle of his dirty, weatherbeaten face. Wild brown hair corkscrewed down to his shoulders. He squinted and pointed a finger at me, then, like he was fishing it out of his memories, he said, “You’re Kate. The sheriff’s daughter.”
“That’s right.” I nodded. “You mind if I paint over here? Will it bother you?”
I wonder what he thought. He looked kind of surprised – I figure everybody always thought of him as the bother, which was part of the reason why I mentioned it. But after a moment, he shook his head and turned back to face the breakers, hands clasped behind his back.
The gulls screamed, fighting over a fish, as I set up my easel and canvas. As I worked, I shot glances at Basil now and then, because even if I was friendly, I wasn’t stupid and wanted to be on my guard.
He paid me no mind, muttering things about ‘too far gone’ and ‘corrupted through and through.’
I wondered if he was sick. Briefly, I contemplated asking him what was too far gone, but I figured that might end up making him angry. Seemed to me he just wanted a quiet place to mutter, and so I let him be.
An hour wasn’t time for much, but luckily, I was doing a series at the moment. Every day, I taped off the canvas into small blocks and painted part of the same view off the old quay. Hopefully the effect would be pretty. I’d done one in the early morning, and a section in the middle while the sun was going down and streaking the sky with fire. A stormy afternoon like today would complete it.
I started working, and before long, I forgot all about Crazy Basil. Immersed in blurry strokes of gray and flecks of white, it didn’t even occur to me again that I wasn’t alone until I suddenly felt a warm breath rustle my hair.
Jumping, I twisted around to see Basil standing right behind me, peering at the painting. Maybe I should have made tracks for the house right then and there, but I suddenly realized I’d never seen Basil up close before, and the artist in me was captured by his eyes. I’d never seen such a vivid shade of blue. They were like two sapphires in the midst of a lot of gray-brown, and they looked a lot older than they should have.
Basil grunted, looked at the painting, the sea, and then the painting again. “Not bad.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ve captured the wildness.” He gestured out at the waves, which were certainly coming in a bit foamier and faster now that the wind had picked up. A storm was rolling in for sure. “Water’s a powerful thing, you know. Never underestimate it.”
I lifted an eyebrow. An odd statement, but then again, Basil was an odd bloke. “Yeah, I got you. I’m careful when I swim. Hey, do you like painting?”
“Me? No. I don’t paint. I wish I could, but this world’s too damaged. Nothing I do comes out the way I envision it. I feel like I’m trying to build a house with broken tools.”
“Huh.” I stuck out my lower lip and studied my canvas. “I get that. I never feel like I’ve finished any of my paintings.”
Basil nodded, shrugged, and meandered out to the edge, twining his hands together and gesturing at the air.
Figuring he was just being Basil, I dabbed some more green onto my brush and was streaking it along the waves, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ocean do something crazy.
I started and nearly dropped my palette. Water spiraled up in front of Basil, twisting and spraying and stretching out gleaming arms that froze in midair. Basil stared at it, his hands lifted at his sides.
Was he doing it? My jaw just about hit the ground.
“Are you…? Is that…?”
Basil cocked his head, staring at his bizarre kinetic sculpture. Two seagulls flapped about above the surface of the water, screeching at each other. Basil flicked his hand and the water rushed away from him to smack down atop the two bickering birds, drenching – and silencing—them. A look of satisfaction settled over his expression.
“That was crazy!” I stammered, setting down my supplies with shaking hands and walking over. “Was that magic?”
He grunted, and his shoulders moved indolently up and down. “Some call it that.”
“That’s amazing!” I could hardly believe this was really happening, and I probably wouldn’t have believed that Crazy Basil could do things like that if not for the evidence of my own eyes. There was more to that funny ol’ tramp than anyone knew.
One side of his mouth curled upwards. “That’s nothing.” He swept his arms out like a maestro conducting a symphony. The waves swelled and surged up, towering above us on the end of the quay. Thunder grumbled from the far-off clouds bunched on the horizon.
“Wow,” I whispered. So that was what he meant by power. Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and I shot him a side-eye. Sure, he was Basil, but he was Crazy Basil. Was I safe here?
“The world’s filthy, Kate,” he murmured. “But I can clean it.”
Before I fully knew what was happening, the wave tipped over and rushed toward us. I shrieked and scrambled back out of the way, though not in time to fully avoid a drenching. Basil let the wave hit him head-on, and when it receded and rolled off the sides of the quay, he still stood there, dripping dirty water.
“Geez!” I yelled. “A little warning would be nice the next time you decide to take a bath!” I ran to check on my painting, hoping nothing had splashed that far. Luckily, it was alright, but I blew on the paint and put my things away regardless.
When I finally walked back to him, my mind had started processing what he’d said. “What do you mean, clean it? Like, literally? Are you talking about trash in the ocean or something? Or do you mean –”
“The people,” he growled. “Grimy, rotten souls. Death and destruction, abuse of every faculty the Creator gave them and their mockery of everything that’s too great for them to understand.”
“Oh.” I stared at his hands, clenched at his sides. “Yeah, I get what you mean. Life’s not fair and people aren’t nice. Believe me, I know that. Why do you think I paint?”
He turned and frowned at me. “I… I don’t know,” he said at last. “Why do you paint?”
I smiled and folded my arms, staring at the texture of the purple-gray clouds, a texture I longed to capture on canvas. “Because there is still beauty in the world, and I want to catch it. I want to hold it and show it to other people.”
“Beauty.” He snorted. “All is corrupted.”
“Well,” I said, a bit annoyed. “Then I paint to make beauty and bring it back into the world.”
“Impossible. Humans cannot make anything of worth. They taint all they touch.”
I scowled at him. “I thought you liked my painting.”
His posture relaxed a little bit. “I did,” he murmured, sounding almost confused.
“Then maybe you’re wrong. Maybe there can be beauty.” I felt my throat tighten. “There has to be. A world without beauty… well… if there’s nothing good to stop the evil, then what’s the point?” I felt tears stinging my eyes and angrily blinked them away. Now was not the time.
Basil frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I muttered.
It was a lie. And Basil could read that clear as crystal as my treacherous emotions betrayed me, turning my face red and my eyes wet.
He faced me, awkwardly lifting a hand like he was going to pat my head, then grimaced and pulled back. I don’t think that he quite knew what to do. Ordinarily, it might have made me chuckle, but seeing him foiled in a small effort at comforting me just stung more. I crossed my arms tight and clenched my jaw, trying to hold it all down. Basil didn’t need to hear my sob story – both of us had just come out here to be alone.
Basil sighed, glanced at me again, and then stuffed his hands in the pockets of the thrift-store suit jacket he was wearing for some reason. “What happened? What did this disgusting world do to you?”
“It… it took my brother.” Why was I telling him this? “He got hit by an idiot drunk kid.” I sniffed hard, swallowing down hot anger.
“Ah, yes, I remember hearing about that. I’m sorry.”
Sorry. Everyone said sorry. So what if they felt bad? It didn’t change anything. Nothing could change the past. I didn’t want to think about this anymore. “What did it do to you?”
Basil took his left hand out of his pocket, with something in it. Resolutely staring at the ocean like he didn’t want me to see his face and the feelings written on it, he dropped a battered, ancient pocket watch onto my palm.
I turned it over and then opened the lid. Ah. A faded sepia photo was pressed in opposite the watch face. A pretty woman with an old-fashioned hairdo smiled wistfully out at me.
“Your wife?” I looked up.
He nodded.
“Sorry.” It came out automatically, even though it felt utterly hollow.
“She was beautiful. Innocent. Perfect.” Fury seeped into his gravelly voice. “And they didn’t just settle for taking her away from me. They had to destroy her.”
“This is a pretty old photo,” I murmured. I had nothing better to say – I couldn’t address somebody else’s pain like that. I couldn’t even deal with my own.
“I’m a pretty old person.”
I lifted an eyebrow. I’d peg him as in his fifties or sixties, maybe, but he was Crazy Basil, after all. “So… when you say clean this world, what do you mean? I mean, what can you do now that will fix anything about the past?”
“I can’t fix the past. But I could start things over. Change the future.”
Goosebumps lifted on my skin. He sounded dead serious.
“How?” I whispered.
He made a motion over the water at our feet, and it danced up, twisting into a tight spout. “Start it anew. Wash it clean.”
I clenched my hands instinctively, and the watch shut with a sharp snap. “You mean… destroy it?” Sunday-school pictures of a flood and an ark danced before my eyes.
“Restart it. This world has lost its chance for goodness.”
“But…” I stared at him in horror. “What about me? I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to make beauty. And you said I succeeded! You said you liked my painting.” I squeezed the watch. “There has to be beauty. There has to be!”
He rounded on me, vivid eyes flashing. “Where?” he barked. “Where is there beauty? If ever a rare flower sprouts, the weeds choke it and it withers.”
I took a step back.
“That’s what I am,” he muttered. “Withered. Maybe water will bring the withered things back to life again, and drown the weeds.”
“Or maybe it will just flood the entire garden.” I folded my arms. “That’s not how vengeance works, Basil.”
“Vengeance?” he spat.
“Yes, vengeance.” The water foaming around the rocks at our feet was getting unusually agitated, and I suspected that Basil had something to do with it. “After Carter died, I wanted nothing more than to meet the guy who hit him, to somehow make him pay. He gets to live and my brother doesn’t – how is that fair? But what good would it do? The only way I could fight back was by bringing in beauty as they made evil. The only way I could stop my own heart from shriveling up…”
What was I doing? Why had I brought my own problems into this? I forced myself back on track. “Basil, even if you use your power to get back at the world for hurting you, it’s not going to change how you feel. In fact, you’ll realize you’ve become like them – you’ll have destroyed lives and dreams and hopes.”
He would destroy mine, for sure. I glanced up at him hopefully, praying that he’d listen. Otherwise I might have to run and get my dad before Basil took drastic measures.
“There’s only one Person that can wash people’s souls without wrecking the world in the process,” I murmured, pressing the watch back into his hand.
“You’re talking about God.” Basil’s posture was still tense and angry.
I nodded. Sheets of rain streaked down on the dark horizon. I probably needed to start packing up and make my way home, but not just yet. I had to say what was on my mind, for Basil’s sake, and – if I was being honest – my own. “One day, God’s gonna clean us for good. Complete restoration, no more brokenness. It’s only a matter of time.” I put on a smile and reached up, patting his shoulder. Flakes of dirt broke off and fluttered to the ground. “You should come to church. Pastor will explain it better than I can.”
Basil said nothing, but I didn’t expect him to.
My back pocket vibrated – probably Mom. “Hey, I’ve got to go. It was nice talking with you. Think about what I said, okay? See you Sunday?”
“Mm. Maybe.” Basil twisted his finger around like he was stirring something, and a little spiral of water came up out of the waves.
My heart still heavy with sorrow and worry, I walked back over to my stuff.
Basil watched while I worked. Finally, as I slung my pack over my shoulder, he smiled wanly. “Goodbye, Kate.”
“Bye, Basil.” I picked up my canvas and hesitated. Then I stepped forward and held it out. “Here.”
He stared at me, looking almost as shocked as I’d been when he’d started doing freaky things with the ocean.
“Take it,” I pressed. “It’s not very good, but… I hope it will remind you that there is and can be beauty in this world, so long as you know the Artist.”
Then he smiled – really smiled, and I swear I saw tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I smiled back.
Some urge pushed me forward and I gave him a quick hug, holding my breath, because he seriously needed a shower. Then, leaving him stunned, I pulled back – now damp and streaked with mud – turned, and started the walk back to the house.
At the top of the first dune, I glanced over my shoulder. Basil still stood at the edge of the old quay, my painting in his hands, his eyes on me. He wore a baffled expression.
I grinned and waved. Maybe he’d come to church, maybe not. My mind was awhirl with thoughts, and bittersweet emotion still churned in my gut.
Who knew, maybe the town madman thought I was crazy.
But then again, any flower could survive the weeds if it was well-tended. There was always hope.
Wow. Kinsey, you've got some powerful words to share. This story is so--I don't even know. But it speaks so much truth. I hope you're proud of this story, because you ought to be. Reading "Crazy" left me astounded. Keep writing for His Glory, Kinsey.
Lily Page
CanadaLily.com
I HAVE A CHARACTER LIKE BASIL
she's not okay in the head hehe
love this so much!!!!
t.c. mei, aka vicki
This is FABULOUS Kinsey!! I love it so much... your prose is gorgeous and the theme was so well done! <3
Crazy Basil IS crazy. 😂
This story makes me slow down and think about creativity like my favorite authors do!! Love it!! Way to go, Kinsey!
Man, you really did get a lot of good submissions! Awesome story!