The Cessna Grand Caravan 12-seat seaplane circles a tiny speck in the Andaman Sea on approach. Henrick watches the sky flare into magenta, scarlet, and saffron as dusk closes in. The island, flanked with sands the colour of Carrara marble and warm azure waters should exhilarate, but instead his heart sinks. There is no pleasure to be had here. It has been ten years since his last visit. The familiar fragrance of cashew trees permeates the air over the gentle murmur of waves. A towering vertical mass of limestone marks the way and Henrick begins the final leg of his journey via longtail boat. A sea of spray rushes ahead foretelling of his arrival. He and Astrid loved to come to this paradise. She came for the snorkeling, spellbound by the colourful corals and displays underwater. And, for the titan trigger fish, hawksbill turtles, blue spotted stingrays, the fabulous little nudibranchs, all within arms' reach. He, for the stunning panoramic views aboveground: the sea shining like glass beneath a cerulean sky, where he would while away the hours beneath the faint rustling of palms, reading. Astrid loved sea life. Even after she waded out of the water limping up the beach, leg dripping with blood, a long tentacle wound around her waist and thigh, its tiny stingers fiercely embedded in her skin, she would stop to look with fascination at the peacock-blue man-o-war bubbles resting on the sand; their intense inky colour alluring. Henrik adored Astrid’s adventurous and playful impulses. He acquiesced of course, when she had wanted to return yet again to this paradise. He had suggested they go back to Lord Howe Island in the Tasman Sea. Each dawn they had been greeted by a blue-breasted fairywren vocalizing at the window of their bungalow; every pristine vista otherworldly. But they had many opportunities ahead, and one year here or there, they would still cover everything on their bucket list. The longboat pulls up alongside the dock at the moonlit bay. Tiki lights stand like sentries flanking the path along the beach up to the main compound. The air eerily still and quiet. The beach, empty, save for memories. Henrick drags his feet. His flip-flops catch on nothing, but he stumbles nonetheless, releasing a cry too absurd and overblown for the tiny misstep. Grief like a heavy blanket, drags along the sand. He smoothes down the edges of his ghost-white linen shirt, now untucked. Strands of silver and grey at his temples curl softly. His hand brushes the wayward wisps to the side, winding the longest unruly curlicue behind his ear. Bending down to pick up a pink conch shell, he rolls it in his hands, feeling its weight and heft. He clutches it to his belly loud like sorrow. There is nowhere to run. Astrid disappeared here. The tsunami pulling her down deep never to be seen again. Henrick raises the conch to his ear listening for her roar. (491 words) Published (as a Reprint) in Flash Boulevard Feb 8, 2020 Published in The Cabinet of Heed December 22, 2019
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The gravel pit yawns. Its thirty-foot high walls stretch up to meet a cornflower-blue sky crisscrossed with chem trails. Leon and Jory lounge around tracking the jet zigzagging back and forth. The rush overhead is loud and the quarry echos like Thunderdome. It’s hot in Black Rock Desert, and there is little breeze or movement among the sparse scruff and bush apart from a few errant tumbleweeds. It is the dry season and there is a fire ban. Sun rays bounce off the aluminum bird radiating like pyrotechnics. The boys make their way toward the abandoned woodshed at the east end of the quarry, picking up bits of discarded lumber and refuse, along the way. Dusk is approaching and easing into a felony is as cool as ice. They hoist the pieces into a colossal heap atop the shed. The stack rocking like a one-legged air dancer. It only takes seconds for Leon to set it ablaze; the metal hood of the lighter whipping back and forth like a battle-ready Kalthoff repeater. Backing up several meters from the roaring heat, the boys take stock of their fiery behemoth. The raging inferno only meant to dazzle the pilot above, sparks something grand. Flames billow and curl disappearing ever so slowly into the jet-black sky; the array of stars fan like spray from a glitter cannon. Before long, the sweet musky aroma of bergamot, clary sage, and Sedona grass, emanating from the swelling brume, overpowers. In the haze, all time stops. It’s like being in someone else’s dream. A dream in which the boys are usually only bit players. But not today. Jory shrieks, swinging his arms wide, his legs splaying out like a jumping jack, mirroring the dancing fireball. Leon is the epitome of calm. It is the first time he is in control. His hands rest calmly by his sides; ADHD all but extinguished. He stands at a crossroads; Juvie behind him. Airborne bits of debris and embers whipped up by the flames heighten the spectacle. The path ahead, clear as a wet t-shirt contest. By morning’s first light, as the sun bleeds across the wide expanse of sky, the quarry is soundless. Embers, exhausted, have scattered like roaches, nowhere to be seen. Tiny gnats searching for blood, mucus, and sweat, swarm, but find nothing. All is parched. The boys are on their own; the pilot and his silver bird have long gone. They unfurl and stretch, their ambitious plan taking shape. In time they will return with a motley crew and the makings of a magnificent Burning Man. (429 words) Published in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, June 2, 2020 Published in Fewer Than 500, February 24, 2020 |
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