Driftwood Beach
I walk along the muddied path, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. As my bare feet touch crunchy sand, the shore catches my gaze. Let’s go see the sunrise, my friend said. My mind is as foggy as the landscape we see on the drive over. Mornings don’t suit me, they never have. As we park the car and make our way to the beach, the ground is harsh and troubling with the mulch and tree roots littering the path. Finally, amidst the trees and open expanse, the ocean. I struggle to see past a cloak of grey resting on the waves. No room for the sun to pierce the shoreline. How peaceful, I whisper as I cast my shoes aside. A deep inhale of salty air freshens my senses and helps me awaken. The surface becomes smooth as I advance, creating a grey mirror below with ocean water. Walking on, I see gnarled, dead trees. They lay defeated all around me, so I wonder: What mighty force brought them here? They stick out every which way, like torn seams in the cloak of fog.
Letting my feet hold the grains of silt, I watch as my friend runs to a nearby tree. He climbs up, reaching to a branch over the waves. The morning dew still lingers, making it slick. He falls into the icy waters, and I run to him at the resounding splash. The cold wind bites as I move, so I pull my sweater closer to my chest. When I reach the shore’s edge, the waves almost beckon me in with their simple gestures. I open my mouth to speak, but instead I simply step back in reply. It’s too cold. I soon see my friend walking towards me, his shirt and jeans clinging to him in a saline embrace. However, he’s laughing now. As if to say his reckless abandon brought about something beautiful. I suppose it did; no sun to burn our eyes and skin feels nice for a change. Our bodies are chilled, and yet we warmly smile at the hazy horizon.
The Dancing Girl
Mother is gone. Still, the city is bustling with life. Coins trade hands in markets and alleyways, creating a river of gold. And yet the girl is full of hunger. She meets an outstretched hand, a ladder to dreams of comfort. The job is yours, he says, if you want it. So now, she will dance. Blossoming in her youth, the girl learns how to move and entice. She is an elusive jewel amongst the dirt of the city. Seats fill the humble bar, while money fills pockets. It is the men losing money who win out tonight, with a spell of sensual splendor waiting for them behind the curtain. The girl wonders why men would come see her perform. Is it for love? Fiery red desire, like the rouge she puts on her simple face? Perhaps they are bored, she thinks. Like the dusty bricks that make the walls of homes in the slums. She asks the boss, who pays her and says, you are putting on a show, pretty flower. That is all.
Now the men want more. Each night is different. New faces come in and out. The girl’s moves are not enough, so the auctions begin. Raucous pleas, money trading hands. The river of gold is a raging rapid now. The highest bidder whisks the girl away, making her a vessel to fill with his own violent passion. Now it hurts, but she must dance. The girl takes a gulp of fresh air outside the bar. Her admirers toss her around like a toy each night, making everything hurt. First shock, then horror, then sadness. A new show begins, with someone else suffering. The girl tires of the dance of pain, so she embraces the knife she wields in her delicate hand. The boss is dead. The blood stains her hands like supple painted lips.
Amanda Gattshall is a senior at Flagler College studying Coastal Environmental Science and Creative Writing. When she is not conducting research out on the water or jamming out to video game soundtracks while writing stories, she also loves playing D&D with her friends or curling up with a good book and a warm cup of tea. She was recently a featured speaker at her college’s Baccalaureate Ceremony, and she is spending her last semester as an editor for FLARE: The Flagler Review. This is the first publication of her work.