Not Nou

Inal’s family had a tree which they had decorated with plastic lights on a green twisted wire. When I was ten I crept out my window a week before soltice, doused it with petrol, and set it ablaze.

Nou—where I live—is stamped into the clay and sand of the west coast of Maur like a boot print. Two kilometers of salty sand lie between the city and the ocean. An ancient warf of stone jetties rests fifty or more meters back from the water at high tide; I don’t know why. Those jetties are made of rock either not of Nou or anywhere in Maur or made from so much of the stuff that all of it was used in their construction. I’ve been digging for treasure in the sand there for fourteen weeks and I’ve found nothing. My brothers believe I’m wind-headed, and except for the [mcguffin] I’d agree with them.

151 words on day 807