By
Valerie Griffin
sparkling elder flower cordial
I
always sit on the same rock. A smooth, humped boulder jutting out of the sand,
outcast by the craggier rocks further along. It’s where I come when my head
fizzes, when I understand the words but not the sentences, when my thoughts
become blurred. I sit here often.
The
day is warming up. Clouds spread thinly above me and into the distance, fine
like angel hair. The smell of seaweed drifts across from the rock pools,
triggering a briny taste in my mouth. The bay is shaped like a horseshoe and the
water is calm. Tiny wavelets roll up the beach in lazy ripples, flattening out
as they stretch across the dampening sand. I like to watch, see if I can catch
the moment between the stopping and the starting to roll back.
In
the winter, when the sea is rough, white horses ride the angry waves, racing
towards the shore, leaping up before pounding onto the beach, showering the air
with a salty spray that mists everything it touches. But as I said, today it’s
calm.
The
soft sand squidges between my toes as I walk down the beach towards the sea.
It’s gritty with broken shell fragments, different shapes and different colours.
I like walking on the sand, feeling the pull of my muscles. It’s good exercise
for my legs. With each step my feet sink briefly into the sand, dispersing the
upper warmth and exposing the cooler layers beneath. Nearer the sea, the
outgoing tide has soaked the sand, leaving the surface colder, harder,
corrugated. I try to avoid the tiny holes left by the tiny, unknown
creatures…they might pop out.
I
reach the edge of the water and stand, looking out across the bay. The surface
twinkles under the mid-morning sun and is dotted with boats, leaving churned-up
white trails behind them. The sand tickles the soles of my feet as it falls away
with the outgoing wavelets, only to be pushed back again by the next incoming.
The clear water laps over my toes and I gasp at the coldness, the downy blond
hairs on my body standing to attention, rigid with shock. It travels along my
insteps and rolls across the top of my feet, stopping just short of my skinny
ankles protruding beneath the hem of my rolled up jeans. The silky water then
recedes, sliding away and leaving my feet covered in a film of grains. I stay at
the water’s edge. With each sensory ebb and flow, on and off my feet, I can feel
the fizziness in my head easing, my thoughts unscrambling.
About the author:
Valerie
lives in Weymouth and belongs to two writing groups. She has had short stories
and flash fictions published online and in anthologies. She is also a compulsive
letter writer and is currently working on her first novel. You can find Valerie
on Facebook and on Twitter @griffin399.
