The beginning

There he was, on the vacant beach, that I had unwillingly positioned him there many repetitive times before. Allowing the wind to swallow his bicycle, he rode leaving no impressions of his tires on the sand below him. He wasn't wearing his helmet as he didn't that day three years ago. The beach was still. His eyes consumed the fringed spectrum of the viewer's cast. The Fog laid still hovering just over the water that mellifluously flowed through the tires barely. He wasn't sick, bruised or bloodied at all, he was perfect, finally. The man began to mouth three words that bit at the ankles of his son almost every unwakened moment; that bitter breath the man took the second he left the driveway that day: "Watch me, Charlie." Nothing was obviously fine.
A sudden sweep of the bicycle into the air threw the man onto his back into the sand that didn't bother making room for his body. The left arm twisted and cracked behind his back and from that his head bounced onto the ground and broke open. The reaply had been kind up to this point; this had only been seen only one heartless time.
The tentacles of the beach entangled the head, the body and the tires as the dream was delightfully disturbed by a fulmination beyond the vapid scene by someone who was very much alive: "Honey? Charlie honey, time to get up."