The colours shimmer; tiny particles of light lashed against the rocky surface. They cling, silvery beads of hope, like fresh oysters. They wink at passersby — or rather, swimmers by. The day is unusually warm; the wind breathes languidly across the seafront, stirring grains of sand from their slumber. They run onto damp beach towels and hug the curves of the people who lay there. The heat from each individual grain gently prod the nerves they rest upon, wanting their presence felt.
The fragrance of suncream, sweat and sea salt mingle into one lazy lungful. The screeches of excited seagulls and joyful toddlers swirl together. The sounds roll around in the shell-like curves of pink ears. The sounds of the rolling waves crest and swell in a calming cycle. When they break, tiny flecks of sea foam are thrown into the air and descend on sunbathers in a shower of summer. Somewhere further down the beach, a scooter rumbles to a halt. The excited cheers and coveting exclamations of children and adults announce the arrival of the Ice Cream Man. Zips whizz across purses and coins jingle as they fall into impatient palms. The fiery beacon overhead kisses the gradually browning shoulders of those who race towards the travelling oasis with his frozen ambrosia.
The sun stretches his rays to encompass the entirety of the beach; he chuckles, toying with freshly whipped ice creams. He watches their dairy sugars bleed down the sides of cones. The wafer droops in the heat, sucking up as much moisture as it can. Tiny fists repeatedly bring the cone to their lips, cooling them with a gentle kiss. Mischievous grins on the faces of siblings as they persuade their younger counterparts to take a lick; then smashing their unsuspecting noses forwards, coating them with a premature white beard. Tiny cries of indignation and shock barely break the calm that has settled upon the beach.
The warm breeze stirs again. It playfully kicks up small sandstorms and carries off empty crisp packets. A sharp boulder obstructs the path of one of the runaway packets. Its razor sharp edges jut out defiantly — perhaps, slightly protectively? The wind, annoyed, pushes a little harder. The dark rock leers. Its face seems to warn the wind to back off; that this is not the time nor place for childish behaviour. In the etches and scratches of its weathered face, a maternal instinct can be detected. Normally this rock inspires adventure and quests; it encourages people to come fish, to seek out small crabs and maybe even poke around for a starfish or two. But not today. Today the rock is unapproachable and distant.
The crisp packet lies forgotten; the game slips out of mind. The wind, tension brewing, risks a peek around the side. Instantly, the screaming of seagulls is replaced by the shrieking of sirens; a primeval icy cold prickles against otherwise hot skin; the sea draws back, eager to retreat as far away as possible.
A figure in the sand, her hair straw-like, lies sprawled behind her rock. Seaweed has thrown itself across her in a last attempt to comfort her. Tiny shells lie beside her ears whispering unheard prayers. Her feet are coated in dried blood; her throat torn open.
Her face is contorted in eternal agony. Nobody heard her final song before. Now, nobody will never forget it.
//Picture not mine. No copyright infringement intended//