The sun smolders on the horizon, setting the sky aflame and lending the sand the warmest grasp at my ankles as my feet sink into it. The froth of the waves washes against my ankle, tickling my warm skin. The air is crisp and the wafting aroma of grilled chicken hints at paradise, nothing like the brine of a lake or the fish guts of a marina.
The small strip of beach wraps around in the shape of a horseshoe, the sea washing up on its inner edges, and a wall of luxurious beachfront houses set on a distant hill mapping the outside edges. Nearer to the sand, on a lower level, are the seaside shacks and cabanas to grab a snack or drink. People rush away from the beach and flood the stands as dinnertime rolls around.
Catching a glint from the corner of my eye, unconvinced that it was only a stray beam of sunlight, I turn to face a curious pile of rocks stacked on the edge of the strip. I meander toward it, when my cousin taps me on the shoulder. I expect him to tell me how hungry he is from the swim earlier, but instead he says, "I'll race you over there!" I accept his challenge, and hang my head in defeat when we get there. My feet are too large and awkward in the sand, but my small, younger cousin bolted across it like a snake slithers. He flips his soaking, straw blonde hair, flinging cold droplets at me. I recoil and laugh. He wraps his towel, which he's now wearing as a cape, tighter around his shoulders, shivering. The sun, despite it's sinking, is still far from going down. The sand will be cold soon, but there is still time to make a sandcastle. I suggest it, but my cousin sticks his tongue out at me,
"Sandcastles are for babies," he snorts. I roll my eyes. How could I forget what a grown man he was already?
"What do you suppose we do instead, then?" I ask. He shrugs his shoulders and I sigh. But between my breath, I can hear a small noise. I shush my cousin, who, of course, is now complaining of hunger, and listen. I hear it again; something of a low-pitched quack. I step closer to the sound, coming nearer and nearer to the awkwardly-placed rock that caught my eye. I stoop down, curl my fingers underneath, and heave it aside.
To my surprise, out waddle at least twelve ducklings with no mother. My cousin gasps, immediately enticed by the small animals. I smile, and try to catch one as it waddles away. I finally pick one up and brush the grit and sand from its feathers. It quacks at me pertinently until I decide I should let it go, and set it free. I herd them all toward the water, and shove them off. They paddle in a group, somehow knowing where they are going. I pray that they will be okay, and come to rest in the sand.
I shut my eyes until I can no longer feel the sun's heat or see it burning red on the back of my flushed eyelids.
Jets of purple rocket through a rosy sky glazed with fiery hues of red and orange. Dusk settles at the highest point in the sky, and stars are just beginning to form. A long shadow has been pulled over the valley at the end of the strip where my cousin and I lie,so we move ourselves back into the last of the day's sunlight.
The beach is nearly empty, but I notice something strange in the center of the water. It's bubbling, almost as if it were boiling. I narrow my eyes to focus, but see nothing other than blurs.
"What's happening?" my cousin asks, pulling at my arm, "why are the guards kicking everyone off the beach?"
I crane my neck to see what my cousin is blathering about, but just as he had said, a security team is loitering around, rallying up beach-goers and forcing them to leave.
"I don't know," I say. A guard approaches us, hand outstretched, but I am hesitant to take it and follow him.
"You have to come with me, the beach is closing now," the guard says, reaching out to take my arm by force. I step away, my feet twisting in the sand. He squares his shoulders and grinds his teeth.
YOU ARE READING
Dream Journal
Rastgele"Dreams are the illustrations of the book your soul is writing about you." - Anonymous.
