The rainbow beach huts blaze gold as the winter sun strokes by on route to the horizon. Rock pools light up in reflection and for a stolen moment
the world shines with warmth and chases December’s shadows to the margins.
Lone figures on the beach pause in place, skittles of
appreciation dotted across the sands. It’s a shared grace; a last kiss of kindness
before the night steals the warmth from the day. I yield and step into the
moment, closing my eyes and laying my hands gently on the stretch of my stomach. I hang there, suspended in the moment until a chill blast of evening air
blows it away.
Amber fades to yellow; yellow gradually dims to grey and my
scattered companions begin to shake off their statuesque appearance. Kites are drawn
in and stowed away; jackets are zipped and scarfs tied tight. All faces eventually
turn from the water and navigate towards the promise of cars and home hearths.
I draw the belt of my coat tighter and walk forward, against
the tide of activity. As others wane their way back to the comfort of home, I
step toward the emptiness of the beach and its fickle shoreline.
Barefoot and alone in the half-light I trace the patterns afternoon tide with my toes, trying to read in them how to return to the joy of summer, back
to July when I padded, giddy, along this same shore.
The sand had been soft and warm that day, giving gently
under the pressure of my tread. My summer dress had billowed lightly in the
onshore breeze, revealing the briefest glimpse of the swelling in my abdomen. I
saw Andrew waiting for me by our stripped beach hut I’d begged as a
wedding gift. He’d sensed my approach, turned and studied me; read me from a
hundred yards.
“Really? Are you?” He’d spoken through an open grin, his
arms spread wide to embrace me and my confirmation of our future. I’d intended
to tease him and play innocent, to deny all knowledge and then just whisper the
truth in an unsuspecting moment. But the
heat of the sand tracked up my legs and filled me with hot laughter that I just
couldn’t contain. I nodded and he swept me up in his embrace and we kissed and
squealed and kissed again; giddy as children. Happy as sand boys.
The winter sand is less generous of spirit. It gives not
under my step, steals warmth from my feet and gives no inkling of how I might
return to the open-hearted glee of that moment.
I leave my boots behind and walk on. The unyielding cold
beneath my feet keeps me prescient, refusing to let my thoughts fall back to
sunnier, kinder times. The life inside
me kicks out, but all I can offer in empty reassurance of my gloved hand….
I love this, it's infused with lyricism and such sadness as well as beauty. In a very short piece, you've set up a mystery for the reader - where is the husband? what's she doing barefoot on a beach alone in winter? - so I hope there is more of this to come!
ReplyDeleteI like the images of the huts, kites and the use of the winter sand at the end to suggest/reflect the coldness that has appeared within the relationship since the summer joy. The contrast/juxtaposition between the gloved hand and bare feet is effective too.
ReplyDeleteI do think that there is too much description that gets in the way of the story of the relationship, but that's just my taste.
I like the images of the huts, kites and the use of the winter sand at the end to suggest/reflect the coldness that has appeared within the relationship since the summer joy. The contrast/juxtaposition between the gloved hand and bare feet is effective too.
ReplyDeleteI do think that there is too much description that gets in the way of the story of the relationship, but that's just my taste.
I agree with Mark that the gloved hand/bare foot is very powerful, and also exposes additional vulnerability in this winter season. There is a recklessness too about bare feet in winter that hints at how lost she is. There is a deep mystery here that intrigues - it's a great way to draw the reader in.
ReplyDeleteThe only thing I'd suggest at this stage for this idea is to perhaps contrast your character more closely with the other people on the beach - or draw more attention to how disinterested in them she is, if she's not drawn to comparing their lives to hers. She is very detached from her surroundings, everything except the bare sand, and perhaps there is more that can be said about this (or more could be said to go the other way).
You have a lovely writing style Alison - I can't wait to read more :)