Turning Point

     It's a dim day on a misty beach. A thick bank of fog creeps over the promenade towards the town. The amusement park is closed today with colours muted in the haze and looming trailers shut tight against the elements. The octopus ride is dead in the water, the slide unslid, and the bumpers huddled together under flapping tarpaulin. Nothing moves. Gentle waves of an out-rushing tide are the only sounds to break the stillness.

     Through all this moves a lonely boy, blind to the grey day and deaf to the breaking water. He negotiates the park aimlessly, threads his way across the prom and finds himself kicking stones on a pebbly shore. He used to like pebbles. He remembers collecting them and filling jar upon jar with all different kinds and colours. That was a long time ago. Now, he sees only the broken glass, smells the sharp aroma of whiskey and feels a thin trickle of blood from a blow - the first of many. He stops kicking stones.

     Closer to the water's edge the sand is wet and firm. He walks backwards for a while to watch his footsteps, knowing that the sea will eventually come to claim any remnants of his existence there. For now, though, he sees his steps and remembers when there were three sets, with gaps in the middle. They would each hold a hand and swing him forwards. He would look back and pretend he was a giant, taking one stride for every three of theirs.

     All too soon the prints in the sand were whittled down to two. She'd tried to explain. He'd understood 'sick' and 'going away' and for years had thought each day would be the day his mam would come back. He realised eventually, around the time he stopped collecting pebbles, around the time the whiskey bottles appeared, around the time there was only one set of footprints to be found in the sand, that she was never coming back.

     He turns forwards again, eyes stinging, legs heavy, as an enormous mass appears in the gloom. It's shapeless at first. He steps closer until it resolves into the form of a whale, beached and alone, it's mottled skin still glistening. A massive eye stares peacefully at the world and gazing at it he wonders if this is its escape, its final freedom, to struggle through the waves onto a land it has never known, to shake off its fetters and cares and quietly...let it all go.

     He faces the wide expanse of the sea. It would be so easy. He watches the mist swirl invitingly on the undulating surface as the weather begins to clear and, just for a second, thinks 'You and me both,kid.' But the notion fades. Walking backwards all the way, just to see two sets of footprints beside each other, he retreats up the beach towards home, picking up pebbles as he goes.

Reviews

[Michael Coleman]

Tess, I actually find this story wonderfully descriptive. You choose the right adjectives to illustrate scenery and emotion. I particularly enjoyed the unique connection between the boy and the beached whale. Abstract and poignant. Keep up the good work!

[Tess Nicholls]

Thanks for reading Michael!

[Russ Davis]

This is beautiful. After reading this and some of your other work, I’m both flattered and surprised by your charitable reviews of mine. You write much better than I ever will. Your new fan

[Tess Nicholls]

Thank you so much Russ! It's great to hear from you and I look forward to another of your exciting stories :)

[Gaurav. C. Ail]

The story is pretty sweet and touching, would have been great if you would have made it a little bit more descriptive oh btw I think there is an error here ( remnants if his existence, i thought it should be remnants OF his existence )

[Tess Nicholls]

Oh yeah, oops! Thanks for pointing that out :) More descriptive, got it - thanks for the review.

[Marie]

THis is a rather nice and touching story.