Dedicated to Grandad.DR.

Descriptive writing. Trials first piece.

Slowly, I dropped a bright scarlet rose like a droplet of blood from my cut finger, the only colour in this world of black and white.

       The salty air pressed against my cheek, sinking into my cracked lips and making them sting as if pushing me away. The wind, full of tension, whipped my hair around my face smacking it against my cheek with force. The air numbed every inch of my body. I waited to see the shadowed figure on the rocks that brought me to this beach many times before, when it was full of life and radiated joy of many summers ago .The winter's sky was cloaked with clouds that smudged the skyline like an oil pastel. The raven blacks of the twilight witching hour's sky made it seem as if the bird itself had spread it's wings over the beach, the sun was blocked away not even streaks of its light peeped through the thick brooding clouds. The cloud's outlines lit up with every crash of thunder as the lightning, similar to electrical energy, passed underneath them illuminating everything, resembling strobe lighting. This set the water sparkling as if it was liquid oxide but it soon leaped away leaving the divided dark clouds as evidence. I sniffed the air waiting for the strong lingering sent of his cologne to fill my nostrils but all I received was the suffocating sour smell of seaweed and strong sharp smells of decaying matter. The rain pelted down on me sharp as needle pricks and mixed with fat salty droplets that ran down my a-line. The vast horizon was filled with the image of emptiness; a lonely candy striped light house which's paint was cracking and peeling away with waves that seemed bored with the same routine. Their creamy foam clung to the edges of the lighthouse soaking up the black slime and green moss trying to pull it away to reveal the lighthouse's glory once more. The top of the lighthouse was not as it had been the glass that had once reflected the suns beauty and held a lantern that beamed a great white light guiding sailor's home as if it was a guardian angel, now stood with the window frames burnt to a black ash and it was only decorated by the silver sparkling trail of sea snails that intertwined in twists and turns, as if it was ribbon or melted wax.

         In the lighthouses glory days no-one could resist climbing to the top and watch fathers ripen in the sun until they turned into a ready to eat lobster, or watch older brothers and sisters help to mould monumental sand castles that formed mysterious stories for the younger minds. No-one could smell the rich scent of sun-creams sizzling in the sun and no-one could smell the fried onions from the food vans that made you turn your nose to smell the fresh air that was light and breezy. No-one could watch teenage girls sweat until they couldn't stand it anymore trying to receive a tan that made their skin seem as if it was made of bronze or gold. No-one could see the teenage boys' ogle at screaming girls splashing lukewarm, water at each other while hoping they would be noticed. No-one could taste the sea's rich minerals that felt fresh and revitalising on your rough lips and tarnished skin. Most importantly no-one could see the Devonshire granddads who waddled to there grandchildren with a huge smile that beamed with such radiance as they appraised the children's accomplishments, there great mounds, sticking out of bright trunks, the result of to much clotted creamed scones and near by pubs. There bright red foreheads and cheeks beaded with sweat but they wouldn't show there tiredness as long as it made there grandchildren happy. The red seemed dull so very dull.

            I trudged through the squelching sand that made a sucking sound as it dissolved my footprints. Its colour was a dark brown like I was standing on deep indulgent chocolate; it had once been a caramel colour with highlights of beiges and cappuccinos. It now had a smell of dampness and mould, similar to when a wet towel is left for a long time. One lonely boat sat on the horizon its colours fading with the back-ground, only its name visible in the rising sun la barca del sole, boat of the sun. It had once been a boat that was most talked about in Devonshire, the envy of the whole coast with its bright purples and oranges, the boat seemed to go missing at sunset. All the other boats that bobbed up and down next to it, were dull with there sea greens and light pinks. My grandpa had known the owner, he was an exotic man much like his boat, he had two sons and a daughter that became dear friends they had come from Italy and brought there culture. When I used to climb on I felt like the queen of the ocean. There boat smelt of garlic, ripe tomatoes and oregano, I always thought this is what had attracted the fish and the other sailors, there boats would all settle around this Bella boat and we would all indulge and bloat with fresh Italian food, and slowly sail back to the shore our hunger satisfied, the smell drifting behind us. The inside was just as magnificent full of reds, deep browns and gold embroidery, it was like one of the million pound houses that lined Venice's canals. The wood felt smooth like it had been worked on for centuries and the Gods had carved it to be so smooth. It was the boat that always caught the most attention and won the most boat races. I loved to see it rush past the other dull boats its bright white sails billowing in the wind. Now it sat alone dull like the other boats, no chance of sitting on it once more or to see it's beautiful inside as its base had worn away with time leaving a huge hole. Its owner was grieving much like the boat that could never be used again its days had run out with time.

         As I moved to the water I dodged scuttling orange crabs, bright white fish bones and large chunks of driftwood. I reminisced how the water had been a Mediterranean blue that's shade grew darker as you swam further out of the alcove, the water at the edge of the beach as you entered the bath like water seemed transparent with large schools of fluctuating fish turning at sharp angles trying to avoid crowds of people entering the tempting sea. Coloured beach huts lined the edge of the beach with stripy bright deckchairs that squeaked if anyone entered them. The wood was smooth well carved and painted to perfection but they were no longer here instead there were huge mounds of sand and fading limestone, grains being blown away with the cold winter wind. I crept forward wishing to feel the divine water. I looked down the black water swirled around my feet, as if someone had poured black die into an empty space. The cold sent a chill down my spine and made me jump away as if it was corrosive. I looked for any movement of life in the water but it must have died with time or the poisened water, all that floated was bits of driftwood and leaves from the nearby cherry blossoms. I stared out at the sea for a while determined to see his figure. I climbed over a near by crumbling groin but slipped on the slimy green moss. The beach seemed to be hurting me pushing me away unlike before where it invited me and was a child's haven. The flag seemed to laugh at me. As it shake with laughter in the wind holes being punched more with every whoosh of wind or screech of a seagull. I finally made it to the rock. I waited to see the shadowed figure on the rocks that brought me to this beach many times before, when it was full of life and radiated joy many summers ago. The beach now seemed like a ghost beach the figures of friends and families blurred in the fog, as if I was looking into to someone's memory in black and white with which they had forgotten some of the details so the people were blurred in places. All I saw was the scratchings and scrapings of carvings that we had made I traced my hand over them the rock scratched at my hands with its roughness and cut my hand with a knife edge, the smell of my blood like rusting metal hit me masking the smell of crab.

          Slowly I dropped; a bright scarlet rose like a droplet of blood from my cut finger, the only colour in this world of black and white. I let go of his ashes and let them whirl around in the wind, his favourite place in the world was morning his death too. I heard a loud shriek in the wind as his ashes drifted away from his home town and his beach. Some rested onto the sea and were drawn away with a small wave pulling him gently to the bottom of the deep dark water, so he could finally rest on the sea bed. A little light of sunshine cracked through the clouds heating my skin drying my tears and red raw nose. I knew it was time to go from this beach and return in the summer when I knew it would be full of life again and hopefully restored to its former beauty now it had its most faithful resident back, the one that believed in this beach. I took in one last breath of the dirty air and looked round to the kite that had floated with memories to every splinter of crimson hand carved wood and soared in the sky filling with dreams instead of air, catching life's joys and the sight of a young mahogany haired girl with sun kissed red cheeks and her doting granddad who she called Bobo with white cotton balls as hair and eyebrows covered in body art to tell his story of a hard-working life.

      Slowly, walking away my vision blurred and the image obscured, like the fog that began to settle and leave everything in dismay. Walking to the car discouraged, it was the only thing that sparkled in this darkened place. I held the kite close to my chest and remembered my time when this beach was beautiful and my granddad had been alive to make everything that was one dimensional three.