Native, Tourist, Fool
By Marie Little
Listen to a reading of this story by Marie:
Native
When I turned eighteen, I was allowed to lead walking tours myself. I herded the public round Black Rock to the bay where the bladderwrack threatened to slip you into oblivion. I would gather them first in huddles, tell them the darkest tales that Grandad had told me. Stormy days were best; just enough roll of the sea to tilt their bellies, not enough to cut off the path to the bay. That morning was seal-grey and darkening, salt high on the wind.
Tourist
She was sixteen or seventeen, a city girl, visiting. Seaweed plaited through her hair like ribbon. She hung on my every word but said nothing. The storm kept hold of its own tale while I spun them the old yarns, but swelled up behind us as we picked our way round the rock. The tourists formed a restless wave, clinging to each other in yelps. Seaweed Girl walked alone at the back, shoes in hand, smiling into the wind, her seaweed-plait waving.
Fool
In the howling bay, I ushered them to a half-cave, lipped like an oyster shell. I broke out the ‘Ship’s Rum’, the only survivor of a ship lured inland, seasoned every year since with siren’s tears. I passed her the flask. She took it silently, our hands clumsy in the spray. She drank long and deep, never taking her eyes off mine. As she returned the rum, the idea of a feather peeped from the sleeve of her coat. I took a swig. The other tourists disappeared, the storm passed over, the bay itself shrank to the size of that moment. I watched as she carefully put her sandy shoes back on to her clawed feet.
Marie Little lives near fields and dreams of the sea. She has had poetry/flash published by: Acumen, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Roi Fainéant, Sídhe Press, Janus Literary Magazine, HAD, Black Bough Poetry, and more. Marie enjoys unpretentious poetry, twisty flash, and the challenge of a writing prompt. She writes for children as Attie Lime. Socials @jamsaucer @Attielime