Back to writing index

He Missed the Sea was originally published in the October 2003 issue of Flash Me Magazine, an online 'zine dedicated to publishing quality flash fiction. He Missed the Sea He missed the sea, so when he got the chance he would sit by the river on a bench by Marble Gate Bridge. It was a poor substitute, yet it still worked its own particular magic. It resonated within his blood and his heart soared for the joy of it. He felt its presence before he saw its waters. Every so often he would witness something bad -- an argument on a busy street, traffic horns used in anger, vandalism, violence -- and would want to shy away. At times such as these, the river helped. It washed him clean, but the water was dirty and could only do so much. Its brown waters darkened with the tides. He sat until he felt almost like himself again, staring at the water until hunger or cold or fatigue forced him up and back into the city. Time passed and life in the city became more bearable. The streets seemed cleaner, the pain and the anger of his neighbours more distant. He made his pilgrimages less frequently and began to relax. Then one night, walking back from meeting friends in an unfamiliar part of the city, he was attacked. Thieves fell on him shortly after he left his companions. In a flurry of movement and harsh voices, they stole away his money, broke his body and bloodied his face. He called out to passers-by, but they shied away, averting their eyes from the violence. He fell into the black puddles of a quiet side street, and the thieves left him to stare up into a thick, starless sky. Eventually he pulled himself to his feet. He didn't know where he was, but he knew where the river ran. The pounding in his veins reached to it, yearned for it. He faced south and started walking. The people that passed him crossed the street, and he cried tears that stung his cut-up cheeks. His progress was painfully slow, but in time he passed more familiar sights. Moving between two buildings, he barely felt the accustomed rush as the sky opened up before him. Grey-brown cloud hung low over waters the colour of scuffed black leather. The reflections of streetlights on the far bank were muted and weak. He heard a faint lapping of waves from the wake of a boat, but still he couldn't feel sated. He passed the steps that led down to his bench, instead limping through Marble Gate and on to the bridge. A bus sped by him, and the wind of its passage caused him to fall. He pulled himself up on the dark stone balustrade, leaving a pool of blood behind him. Fresh blood washed over his belly and legs. He wailed when he realised he was getting dirtier; his blood and his tears mixed with the grime he had laid in, a grittiness that grazed his flesh. He stopped at the middle of the bridge, where statues of worn men stared up and down the river. At first he saw nothing, but when he finally did see light reflected, his tears stopped. He forgot about his injuries and the hated city. Then the light disappeared and the pain crashed back, threatening to smother him. He screamed and fell against the rails. He tried to see another reflection, but through teary eyes he found only blackness. The river had gone away. He thought that if he could just get closer he might see it again, feel it again. He could be cleansed again. The broken man climbed onto the stone railings and with sudden surety stepped forwards. In the last moment he fancied he could see the reflection of light, and he soared. He hit the surface and the muddy waters washed away pain in an instant. By the time he reached the sea, he was cleansed. # Back to writing index
	Concept and content by Kevin Paul Jones Copyright © 2003 Kevin Paul Jones