The Edge

Its a slow, simple night. The wind runs smoothly over the cast iron rims of boats in the harbour. It is chilly out, most people keep by the banks, tourists won’t come for another two months. You could walk between the boats, if you wanted to. Here and there, worms and crustaceans could be spotted navigating the slick sludge. For six hours, they reigned the harbour, though mich more pleasantly than the humans.

After a few moments, the wind seems to have exhausted itself. An exasperated sigh wafts over the bay, falling slowly into the waves beyond the horizon. Come, children, it seemed to say, it is time to go back. And with a soft and gentle tickle of the air, the waves began to grow home. Surely and slowly, they washed around the keels of boats, their rudders and anchors, dragging the sand with them. At this hour, there would have been little visitors to the scene. It was better that way.

Skin like parchment, rough and drawn on by time. Woke eyes, deep like the ocean that bore them. Hands with a good grip, to hold whatever it could cling to. In a stroke of irony it only wore Levi’s. The cool waves around its ankles swept back and forth. If there had been someone to witness the coming of the beast, they would have swooned. It had the looks of a surfer, and even worse, the skill to back it up.

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