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Written by Ken Loge
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The warm night wind sprinkled sand against a faded yellow truck. Its windshield twinkled in the moonlight, and the patter of sand on metal rang like a distant chime. The green uniformed officer in the driver's seat did not move. The wind was strong, covering many night noises.
The sand was the kingdom of Keith, now asleep in the darkened farmhouse a quarter-mile away. Here he was the almighty creator and destroyer. It was he who could part the earth and the seas (when his mother allowed him to use the watering can). It was he who decided exactly which shovelful of sand was to be placed where, and the depth of the valleys, and the height of the mountains.
The sandpile was, to him, an unfrosted cake, undecorated and waiting. It was his habit to build each morning and level each evening, unless he had an exceptional city to preserve. Sometimes wind or rain disappointed the blonde boy and rearranged his work. But Sand City was the place for Keith to apply his imagination, or to vent his frustration. To others it was just a sandpile, and Keith just a green-eyed boy of six.
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