Sea Breeze - a cocktail of vodka, cranberry juice and pineapple juice, with a wedge of lime
I trudged along the beach, every step on the shifting shingle, a case of one forward, half a pace back.
After what seemed an age, I reached the monument, and paused to enable my breathing to return to normal. I stared at the four metre high scallop, registering its texture; relishing the effect of the winter sun on the blue-tinged, stainless steel. I looked around; there was not another soul apparent within my view.
I stepped back, the better to enjoy the sight of the structure within its environment, and realised that in fact, I was not alone. On the seaward side was a slim, long-haired woman. Despite the nature of the weather, she was clad in the merest of summer garments and physically demonstrated no signs of the wind or the low temperature, upon the skin of her face, arms and legs.
She smiled and moved towards me, resting her hand on the edge of the shell.
‘It was designed by an artist called Maggi Hambling,’ she said, ‘she lives not far from here.’
‘It’s a tribute to Benjamin Britten, the composer,’ she added.
‘I know that too.’ It was my turn to smile.
‘Do you know that it has magical powers?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
She grinned, having found a fact with which she could acquaint me. Her head on one side, she gently wagged a finger in my direction.
‘Come. Place your hand on this spot.’
When I was near enough, she removed her hand and I placed mine where hers had rested. The metal was hot, such that I was surprised, but I did not withdraw my fingertips. My persistence appeared to provide the catalyst for her to grasp the hem of the short skirt of her garment, and drawing her hands upwards, she pulled the pale pink shift carefully over her head, exposing her naked body. She lowered her arms allowing the dress to slither to the pebbles alongside her feet.
As I stared, she stretched out her hand towards my left side, the furthest from the scallop. Nodding, she encouraged me to take her hand in mine, and the moment we touched, a deep sigh emanated from her lips. It was audible above the sound of the incoming sea and the gliding shingle.
‘My name is Karina,’ she whispered. ‘You must accompany me, come.’
I released the metal, and as she moved away, I found that I was able to follow, walking as if on a surface with the least possible resistance. In fact, we seemed to float just above the beach. As we reached the sea, I saw that her feet and legs fused together, and the lower half of her body transformed into a fishes tail, covered in lustrous scales.
She drew me to her, and held me firmly in her arms. She pressed her cool, salty mouth against mine, and when my lips parted, she slowly inserted her tongue, which seemed to be endless, and slipped without obstruction deep into my body. Her chill overtook me and as her power flowed between us, my body relaxed. I felt the water rise, over my feet and up my legs, and as it did so, it brought with it warmth, a cocoon-like comfort that wooed me and melded me to her. Our bodies became as one, as the water flowed over our heads, and the world went away, to leave Karina and I in a state of ultimate solace.
ALDEBURGH FESTIVAL – TRAGEDY
The Festival’s final concert which should have been held on Saturday evening has had to be cancelled. The body of Sylvia de la Cruz, the virtuoso violinist, who was due to solo in two Concertos, was found by a group of bird watchers at Orford Ness. It is thought that Miss de la Cruz, who enjoyed her twenty-first birthday only last week, had made a pilgrimage to the Scallop, the monument to Benjamin Britten on Aldeburgh beach, and may have walked too near to the sea, during the high tide of two mornings ago.
Miss de la Cruz’s agent, Robin Pinero, during a tearful statement, admitted that the artiste would be much missed. He also confessed, when questioned, that Miss de la Cruz was unable to swim.
Bio: Roger Noons
Having spent the best part of thirty five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.
He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CafeLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.