You wanna stay here with me?”
Rising past my hips, the tide wets the back of my shirt, pulling the material back and forth. Frothed waves choose between settling on the sand or clinging to my legs as they lap upon the shore. My eyelids crawl from each other. Sunlight impales the gaps in the clouds above, charring portions of my flesh like it’s restricted by a corroding cage. Tattered skin, peeling lips—all familiar feelings, yet I do not remember ever being by a beach.
“What good would that do?”
My short breaths suddenly seem like far too little, and I gasp in warm, salty air. Grains of sand fly to the back of my throat, making me lurch forward violently. My spine cracks, and my head spins in nauseating rotations as I cough and cough. The abrasive urge grates my throat from the inside, yet the pain is nothing compared to searing skin.
“No, my boy. No.”
My eyes have taken their chance to adjust now. The beach rustles quietly as I squint and glance around. The sand that sits beneath me, behind my nails, and beyond the distance, is as black as the sleep I conquered. It stretches for miles, transforming the sea water to this horrible, oily grey. The hue makes what would have been a beautiful shore almost factory-like. Mechanical.
“I didn’t work this hard for you to throw away your chance.”
I twist onto my stomach and take ample time pushing myself to my knees. The sluggish movement is accompanied by a symphony of awful clunks and pops, as my bones slot into place and I start to put one foot in front of the other. The more I walk, the more endless the beach seems. On my left, the ocean has stretched its ashen grip all the way to the horizon. And on my right, the inky sand has done the same.
“Quickly now, they’re coming.”
Each step roasts my soles as my feet drag in the parched, blistering sand. The expanse has an almost ephemeral quality to it. Not a building, person, or even bird in sight. I adjust my neck, sore from craning, when I see specks of bleached wood protruding through the sand. More and more, the shards and splinters disrupt the tar-like theme, thickening further ahead of me too.
“Put it on, and listen to me.”
The debris develops. Longer chunks of wood. Torn, seemingly burnt pieces of cloth. And a series of bone-colored dots and clumps, littering the dark, grainy dunes. I shakily squat down to gather a few in my palm. The hard outer crust gives in after a bit of pressure, squishing between my fingers into a dry, flaky paste. Wax.
“You are not to turn back.”
Looking closer, everything is loosely coated in it. It clings to the ends of the wood, lines the edges of the burnt fabric, and covers the smaller, more complicated parts of this rudimentary machine. Looking down at myself as well, it’s dripped all along my front, gathered mostly on my shoulders. It grows thin where my skin is most blistered, tracing the outer rings of my many burns and wounds.
“Whatever happens, whatever you hear.”
The memories pulse back into my mind in surges, mimicking the sickly ebbing and flowing of the viscous waves. My father. The water encroaches on me, pulling parts of the debris back to the ocean with it. My freedom. It reaches my ankles, the sun projecting its white-hot judgment down onto me. My greed. In a crash, it rises up my legs, the recollections burning more than any lesion on my body.
“Fly, fly away, my son.”
Recently graduated with a BFA in Film, Screen and New Media, and with a minor in Creative Writing, Fynn is an up and coming creative talent. He has always loved stories, no matter the context, whether they’re his creation, he assists them in being created, or he’s just appreciating them as a viewer. Based in Brisbane, Australia, his writing demonstrates a focus on grand, rich tales used as intricate metaphors for painfully realistic themes. Something that has readers pondering, sitting forward and dwelling on after it’s finished.
Featured image by Yevgeniya Tyumina on Unsplash.
