The Beach - By Ian Duncan
The one close to me is perfectly golden in colour and the other one is closer to black. The colours of their skin radiate perfection, continuously flowing from head to toe without interuption.

Their clothes seem old and worn, the colours monotonous and indiscernible . . . probably from dirt building up over time. There are small jagged holes torn along their shirts, mostly on the front. They're both wearing shorts which stop at the very height of their impressive thighs.

Their legs are long; they seem to be made entirely of muscle. Such staggering physical strength doesn't seem to be uncommon in this area of the country, the coastal region, where most people walk and use their bodies for manual labour instead of machines.

Walking barefoot, they press the shape of their toes into the sand. Our eyes follow them as they stroll down the beach out of sight.

Suddenly I feel extremely inadequate; I'm too embarrassed to put my own bathing suit on.


Hiding behind a continuous sheet of pale grey cloud is the setting sun; it fills the sky with monotonous light. That light fades into the distance as nightfall descends on us. Everything is concealed in darkness. No stars shine; there is no moon. There's not one cloud in the sky by this time. The sky is black.


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