That thing. You can't quite put your finger on it. One day you can.
Chapter one, between the beginning and the end.
In the last days of a spectacular summer's Indian afterglow he walked along the strip of wet sand. Side-stepping lapping waves while looking for a place to cross to the sand-dunes.
Weaving between little islands of deck chairs, towels and beach-toys, so many piping hits from tiny radios. So often a silly love song. He listened to the distant families and turned to the quiet of his secret lagoon.
A pool so deep and still, a dark blue mirror.
Near the water a ring of stones marked last nights fire and halfway up the far side a rusty corrugated sheet.
Buried under this was his rucksack and within all his belongings other than what he wore and the contents of his pockets.
He pulled the rucksack up taking the weight on his shoulders and pondered which direction.
Killing birds with stones, emptying out, filling up.
Simple, along the beach and onto the chip-shop where he could lighten the rucksack at a bin of stuff past its use and while there put something in his stomach at least once today.
Just at the top of the dune he looked back and reflected on a whole summer there. He understood who he had been had gone.
Looking ahead, he knew who he would become would be a stranger to himself.
from Mortal Coils,
released April 16, 2020
Vocal: David Carter