Just Beachy

I'm not trying to stay at the top, honest! I keep changing one word. Sorry, I couldn't help it. I'm done now (until someone hits me with an editing list, anyway).

This is my first crack at an entry for the Retreat West short story competition. I've built this up and I have about a hundred words spare to add in a few phrases and generally tweak things. It is entirely fictional, let me know what you think!.

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Just sitting. Sitting on the sand. Much better idea than walking right now. Or standing. When I first got here my feet were just nicely in the cool swishing water, but the waves have moved away already. 

Shortest night of the year apparently. It was light when I got here, just. I remember my shadow leering out in front me, as ill-defined and unsteady as I was.

The tide is in. Was in. It’s on its way out now. I’m parked here, stationary on the slowly expanding silvery sliver of sand that is the beach. The sea has gone from being a sparkly carpet from here to the horizon to a dark ebbing boundary just in front of me. The warm wind whispers still in the rushes behind my back, just like it did when I shambled through them earlier. The sky is clear, and probably beautiful, but I don't look up. That wouldn't be a good idea, not yet. Somewhere behind me the moon is setting, still casting its own meagre shadows.

Before I sat down I had the bright idea of rinsing my mouth out with water. Sea water, of course, that's what was immediately available, and it did seem like a good idea at the time. It wasn’t. It's just salt water, you think, but it's not. It's a very specific salt water, a very specific taste and it's full of other stuff. Full of life, a home for millions of things. Is that what I'm doing? Have I left one home to come to another?

I ask the sea about my ex. It slowly continues its wobbly retreat from my feet with its signature sloshing in-out motion. It gives me nothing. No hints, no answers.

I ask the rushes about my job. They just bend and straighten as the fickle wind catches and releases them. Unseen, their roots are calmly holding the dunes together.

I finally look up and ask the stars about my friends, my family, my colleagues. They are wonderful, real, but so far away I can't really tell if they've heard me. I doubt I'd understand their answers if they ever replied. I look for the closer ones, the clear bright planets, but I don't know where they are. Even if I did, would I recognise them after all this time looking down?

I ask the beach what it thinks of me. Nothing. The sand just sits there. I can see my footprints still beside me after long hours have past. I reach out my hand, grab a lump and make a mushy wet mound. It just stays there. The beach does nothing to change itself. The sea washes its things away, brings more sand then washes that away. The sun dries it out, wind whips it up, roots try to hold it together.

The sea has retreated further still, the wind has calmed in the rushes and the stars have silently and predictably progressed overhead. Far away over the water the sky begins to change. Small sparks go out, dwarfed by a new light appearing first as a suggestion, then a haze and finally the roaring, inevitable newness of dawn. I can only sit and watch and wonder if I could do the same.

It takes a while. I drink in the new day's twilight, watch it change the sky and the sea once more. It warms me, makes the pleasant night breezes seem cold and uncaring by comparison.

Just when I think it has been bright for an age suddenly it gets brighter, blindingly brighter, and it sears my eyes. I blink and curse myself for starting at the bloody point where I knew the ruddy sun was about to blinking appear. When I'm done, and my aching eyes have almost cleared, I finally heave myself to my feet. The sand just yields. My legs ache almost as badly as my head. I am so unsteady; still a little drunk, I think. Well, at least I can stand and stay standing.

I wave at the rushes, salute the sea and smile at the sun. I just shrug at the sand.

"See you, wouldn't wanna be you."

At least not anymore, I think.

With swipes and slaps I give the beach back the multitude of grains which have clung to my backside, my hands and my legs. My underpants are nearby, I shake them as I pick them up then put them on. In the warmth of the dawn I don't feel the need for the rest of my clothes, I just find and shake each piece and tuck them all under my arm. Last of all I retrieve my shoes and socks from the rushes nearest the carpark. My shadow has returned in front of me again, but a lot sharper and steadier than it was the last time I saw it. 

For a moment I panic, swear at my clothes, shake them again, but it's not sand I'm hoping to free. Where are my car keys? My bloody wallet? My sodding phone? My chuffing... Anything? Then I remember, I breathe again and enjoy the fuzzy effervescence of relief bubbling through me. I left them all in the car. It seemed a good idea at the time.

With final cleansing sigh, I leave the beach and return to life.