Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

expanse of rippling silk, the only relief from the sun’s burning rays. The feel of cold sand
beneath my feet, paradise after the scorching grains that led to the water. The sharp intake
of breath as cool water hits my body, the momentary discomfort, then the overwhelming
pleasure as the coolness envelops me like silk, washing away sand and sweat. The sound
of children splashing, laughing as the water hits their hot little bodies, the cries of seagulls
overhead, scanning for discarded ice cream cones and sandwich crusts - sounds that fade
into the distance as undulating water gently lifts my body and carries it out to where the
sea is still. The power of the rays that beat down on my exposed face, drying the salt on
my lips, my skin, bronzed and gleaming beneath the surface of the water with little
pockets of white when I stretch my toes and fingers. The speed with which the droplets
evaporate from my skin when I leave the water. The warmth seeping back into my body
as I lie outstretched, one body among many along the smooth white expanse. This is the
beach. This is summer. This is what I love.
Rebecca Green
THE DAY EXPIRED
The declining sun left the beach dull and exhausted, yet the sea glittered, majestic in
the knowledge another day of tinted excited children was over. Litter scampered across
the sand, yet the sound of ocean whispering could still be heard. The moon dispersed
itself across the fluid surface, fragmented, but unmistakable, marking her claim on time.
A clean white yacht sail flitted along the horizon. Caressed pebbles and shells lay
scattered around homes of sand, crumpled, but lovingly built for imaginary people in
another time.
Lindsey Mitchell
THE SHAKES
Stifling humidity, restless night. Awakened pre-dawn from deep slumber by a sharp
crack, reverberating through the airless room. The bed shifted, scraping, scratching. The
walls bowed threateningly inwards. Jangled sound as the screaming alarm clock hit the
tiled floor. Windows rattled; dustbins far below clattered and stainless steel saucepans
resonantly rang out their protest as they fell from high perches in the deserted kitchen.
Silence, stillness, apprehension, anxiety.
Hastily dress, descend to dining room. People gathered, murmuring voices, shaky
laughter. Locals reassuring. ‘The big one was two months back. This was just the
‘aftershock’ – a mere tremor.’ Life in an earthquake zone.
Margaret Wakeling
KATHMANDU SNAPSHOT
Old women walk side by side with city chickens that cluck and duck between
ricocheting tut-tuts. Pretty children in immaculate school uniforms walk arm in arm down
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