Boy On A Beach He sank into the sand, watching the stars and the#moonemerge from the bellowing abyss that was the sky - shining mercenaries, claiming victory over the dying sun. The sun melted into the ocean; a syrupy smooth concoction of purples and reds. The struggle faded against the growing might of darkness: a graceful goodbye. The day was done. He sank fast and without a worry, as the battle of the sun and the stars was won, and all was silent. The boy turned onto his side and noticed the tide. The sea was breathing and with every gasp, the air buzzed with impatience. Wide eyed and innocent, he inspected the water. Questions of boyish imagination littered his spotless mind. His thoughts were halted when he felt an unfamiliar finger on his shoulder. Shadows of towering palm trees swayed and caressed the shoreline. A feeling of invasion and alienation rose up in the child. The tide seemed to edge closer with ever increasing pace, and each of Poseidon’s heaving breaths pulled at the fragile boy’s limbs. ‘Run.’ The shadows whispered. They were everywhere. So he ran, filled with rejection, and a feeling of raw and artless fear. The wind shoved him and those unfamiliar fingers prodded him; he couldn’t stop. A storm was brewing, and he was its eye.

Climbing A hunter gestures in agreement to his colleague’s suggestion of coconut water. They are dark bodied; sinewy and strong and flexible like the roots of the tree they attend. They seek refreshment and argue in their strange language about which of the two tired men will climb and which will drink first. Time passes and they agree on a game to decide the winner and the loser. They turn their backs on each other, walk forwards five paces, and count to three. On the third, they both reach to the ground and race to draw an arc in the ground with their fingers. The winner would be the man to enter his opponent’s designated five pace squared area first and the first hunter draws the figurative short straw. A complex affair to explain, but effortlessly sensible; it worked. His fatigue doesn’t show as he scales the tree; his back dripping with an earthy sweat – a sweat which glistens in the dying sun, bringing into view the working of his muscles and bones. They contract and relax with a regular rhythm. He continues his ascent. A drop of the grubby sweat falls next to his resting partner at the tree’s foot. He looks up and urges his friend to hurry; to relieve him. He urges him in that universal language. I hear it, and so does the climber. The latter looks down and spits, laughing. He continues to climb. Another drop of sweat falls; his companion looks up as the climber’s head draws level with the nut of his choosing, and disappears in an instant.