I hear reactions before I see it—beachgoers guessing what it could be. Hands above brows to shield the eyes: a new dark salute. Concern rising in their murmurs now. Out there, something is snaking along the horizon—a stark silhouette against the setting sun. Then I see it: not a shark, not whale. A shadow too big for even those but moving with intent. Organic. Honest. All purpose. It’s not right but perfect. Too fast. Already here. And I don’t know where my family is. Or even where I am. I forget I’m part of the known and unknown world. There’s a buzzing in my head that’s too high. Then too low. It’s coming from the creature, like jamming sonar. Our hands cover our ears. We lose what’s left of composure. A woman begins screaming, high-stepping out of the deeper depths, the way one runs through snowbanks, like slow-motion running in dreams—nightmares—where the running is never really running. Then she’s sucked beneath the sea. And we’re stuck in the stale air of this nameless town where something still secret reaches for us all. The sunscreen doing its best to soak up what would harm. But everything is failing. Whole sections of swimmers are pulled under at once from below. Surfers do not resurface from a wave that isn’t a wave. There is no blood—there was never any blood. Things are there and then they’re not. We disappear where we are. The lifeguards have fled their towers to save themselves but even the sand becomes quick to drown. The sun vanishes with a green flash and the clouds turn to ash and fall. And I, ankle-deep in lapping ripples, walk out to my knees, then to my waist. I dive, suspend, and wait—wanting something this strong, this great, to swallow me whole.
Aaron Sandberg has appeared or is forthcoming in Lost Balloon, Flash Frog, Phantom Kangaroo, Qu, Asimov’s, No Contact, Alien Magazine, The Shore, The Offing, Sporklet, Crow & Cross Keys, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, you can see him—and his writing—on Instagram @aarondsandberg.
𝙾 𝙲 𝙲 𝚄 𝙻 𝚄 𝙼 