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Writer's picturefkerr154

A desolate beach

The whirlwind of the day is over. You just want to be alone with yourself and your thoughts. You hear a rustle in the scrub behind you, but it’s a sound that you cannot clearly define as it’s competing with the sound of the surf and gentle sea breeze.


There’s no one around. The beach goers have had their fun and they’ve gone home for the day. The dusk fishermen are nowhere to be seen, it’s just you and your thoughts.


You hear the sound again, though muffled by all the other ingredients of the beach at dusk, it happens again and you’re certain that it’s definitely there. Your imagination hasn’t taken hold, you are certain.


You turn but only see the haze of the fine ocean spray and are perhaps blinded by the fact that you’ve been walking into the brightness of the setting sun.


On first hearing, the sound was to your right and then on turning the sound happens again to your left in the tea tree and scrub. What could it be?


You know there have been incidents on this beach in years gone by. Late night parties, bonfires and music as young people partied in rebellion before their time to commit to the real world after years of education, but the sound isn’t a rustle anymore, it’s now a weeping.


You climb up the dune in the direction of the sound, hoping that you’re correct in your decision. Amongst the clumps of reeds in the soft white sand, untainted by the sea, there’s a clear patch of white sand. You stand there and hold your breath, holding in any possible chance to make a sound so that you can be alert to whatever happens next.


As you stare at the sand that moves gently around in the breeze, there is movement. You rub your eyes to have your clearest vision. The sand moves and shuffles again and two fingers appear, trying to claw their way out of a deep whole.

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