Flash Fiction. Heat. Katie Lewington.

The sun rose over the sea, warming its icy heart. Seagulls merge into the picture, dripping an artists paint, with their curved body and grey colour. The beach begins to warm, the sand solidifying under its own rule and not dominated by the belly of the rolling sea.
The shutters of front shops are sprung open and people fleck the picture with urgent talk and the headlines of the day ahead. Pubs are pushed back, stains dried on the pavement are shielded and soon people are arriving, early morners driven over to claim their caravan or tent site.
The children want a bacon buttie for breakfast and hot chocolate but can we have chips and candyfloss later? The sun is heating, gradually reheating radiator pipes, rubbing its palms in glee, evilly hoping to tan a few people today. The rainclouds are emerging and the sun nudges them away.
Donkeys are paraded on the beach for trade, poop cleared by gypsy owners. Their young sons on their knees, scooping, whilst hoping to make a living. The sea and beach are inviting the families, who turn up in their hundreds, discussing pub lunch and dinner.
The children are digging holes with pathetic plastic shovels and buckets that bulge with the sea salted water. They collect and poke for live creatures in the rock pools, tucking sea weed in their hair, and gasping at the sideward movements of crabs, who are gazing and trying, in an uncommunicative language, to tell the children: bugger off. As if they are kin to grumpy grandfathers, too weary to father and none too grand. They don’t chime like the grandfather clock, faulty but with winding up, deckchairs creak like the sound effect in a horror movie, and they chase the children as mummy tries to brown, half concealed under an umbrella, reading her Jackie Collins.
The day goes over, it’s been a good one. There is litter lining the coves and shit on the steps – the red carpet a path to the beach and with the wind blowing over, gusting, gossiping with the drizzly rain, who smooches and wets stony paths leading to and through amusement arcades. The Wimpy is full to bursting, market packing and a couple snog on the beach front, their toes kissed by the sea.
An ice lolly, worried, discarded, a ball of mush drying the stone into a rainbow, flurries of ice, sad, and transforming into a puddle of stickiness, which then the last few bees attack.

K.L 2016 (C)

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