Vicky Earle Newsletter
And here's a new story I wrote for the Uxbridge Writers' Circle Word Challenge - the words I had to use are shown in italics.
Seagull
The waves unfurled and crashed onto the
pebbles as salty spray, whipped up by the wind, hit his face. The sharp,
unforgiving edges of the cold granite rock dug into Mick’s behind as he
watched the sea unleashing its fury. He could taste the salt and smell the
tang.
He
didn’t have any desire to move. He wanted to stay right where he was, despite
the discomfort. It was easier to forget when the roar of the sea rattled in
your ears.
It
was a mistake his mother leaving Mick with her father, a drunkard, all those
years ago. She’d said that she couldn’t take him to the city, that it would be
better for him here, on this remote, bleak, desolate island surrounded by the
unrelenting power of the sea.
Mick
was the opposite to the sea. He was quiet, calm – at least on the outside, and
worst of all, he had no power. It was his sixteenth birthday and nothing had
changed. The daily routine was the same: make breakfast for the two of them,
fetch his grandfather’s paper, sweep out the cabin, get his books out and read the
pages that had been assigned the night before.
In
the evening, he must recite one poem of his grandfather’s choosing from a list
of twenty: the words of which were contained in an ancient leather-bound
book
A
seagull played with the wind, bouncing in the off-shore currents, floating then
flapping. He faced Mick, and the boy imagined the bird mocking him, teasing
him, challenging him to fly.
Mick
shut his eyes. But the idea had already taken root inside him and swelled,
nourished by the gull’s freedom, his apparent joy at being free. Mick knew that
it was crucial for him to leave. It was not worth existing simply to
learn from old, outdated, dusty books. He needed a plan to escape this torment.
A
month later, when the salty air had less of a bite to it and the thunder from
the sea’s rollers crashing on the rocks had eased, Mick walked down to the
dock. It was calm enough for the ferries to operate again. One of the boats was
in the harbour, and a couple of men were unloading a cargo of cardboard
boxes of various sizes and weights. They piled them up on the quay.
Mick
had the milk money as well as the paper money in his pocket. His lips were dry
and his legs wobbled. He reached the kiosk and asked for a ticket.
“Just
one way, then?” asked the grey-haired, wrinkled man.
“Yes.”
The
ticket was in his cold, shaky hand as he found a seat and slumped down. He
covered as much of his face as possible, with his collar up and his toque
almost covering his eyes.
“Hello,
Moo. I thought it was you.”
Mick’s
stomach churned. His skin felt taut across his brow and around his mouth. He
couldn’t breathe. It was the young man who worked in the dairy.
“You
don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” His large grin revealed stained, neglected
teeth, but his eyes sparkled. He called Mick “Moo” because he bought so much
milk. Mick’s grandfather insisted that he drink large quantities of the white
stuff. Mick would be happy to never have to smell or taste it ever again.
“I
know what you’re doing.”
Mick
slumped down further.
“It’s
about time.”
Mick
moved his eyes sideways to look at the young man. He didn’t know his name.
“Everyone
knows about you and that bad-tempered, drunk of a grandfather you live with,
but no-one knew what to do about it. Good on you to get out of there.”
He
touched Mick’s knee for a fleeting second.
“I’m
going to get a job on the mainland and find a flat. We could help each other
out. How does that sound?”
It
sounded like a dream come true for Mick and not a moment too soon. He had
planned to jump overboard once they were out at sea.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2019
