Spilt Milk

Spilt Milk

The beach sat empty and impatient.
Trees rattled branches one against the other, beating bone against
bone. Nerves screamed. Twig claws scraped the air, twisted roots thinly
clasped sandy soil, feeling for comfort where none existed.

A circle of cliffs strained at the earth's leash, rock jaws slavering
wispy tufts of grass, the sweet smell of the sea's liquid flesh
maddening its immobile wrath. Capture the sea. Crush the sea. Fill it.
Tear it. Slake our thirst.

The sea tore at its eyes, pulled against the moon, churning roiling,
wanting to destroy. It would drown all in its own blood if only it had
the strength. It snatched at all within it's grasp, tearing at the
ankles of the land and drawing bloody rock and sand into its own deep
heart. Bleed and lend me strength. If it could drink the land it would
win. If it could borrow the earth and use it's rocks in its gizzard to
grind out it's loathing. If it could cleanse itself and dissipate the
heat of its own sick hatred.

At the poles it boiled and soothing ice melted before it. But it was
like a lick of coolness on the seas fevered brow, that only served to
feed its anger with thoughts of how things might have been and might
yet be.

In the playground of the beach, wayward sand blew in discontented
circles, narrowing down to messy formless piles. White foam from the
sea spat at the beach, licked itself from dry salty wave tips and lay
till bubbles burst. Thick scum remained and roamed the shallow water
till it dried to particles that fed the earth.

Seagulls flew in shiftless patterns. Touch down. Take off. Touch down.
Take off. Obsessively searching. Tingling knives of anxiety coursed
their brittle bones. Shrill head clasping screams vented fractious
nerves. Wind pushed and pushed and pushed their heads, ruffled feathers
the wrong way, sapping heat and energy. Sand threw itself into staring
black eyes while irrational fury held a moistening blink in
check.

Shells clasped to slick unwelcoming rock. Fish swam in water too cold,
dampening scales, rising to the air with an unaccustomed need for
heat.

The air screamed dementia, full of scattered spirits it blew. The
loveless child, seeking want to fill its need. Coursing through the
lungs of every being. Breathed first in then out through pores and
airways, new found warmth soon cooled by rejection as it found its
scattered body in nothingness once more. Unloved. Unwanted. The victim
of foul abuse. It could not protect itself, had no limbs to form a
guard. Blows and foul intrusions would go straight to its core.
Bitterness and hatred grew. Powerless, its transparency longed for
substance. Its weakness longed for adulthood and power.

Seeking purchase on land or in the empty globe of sky that wrapped the
earth. It expired in fitful shaking sobs, bleeding its anguish into the
cosmos. The air was strong, it held all life, and it held the poisonous
outpourings of man. Yet still it was weak. Gases turned its clear
breath sour and threw the poisons about, knowing they could not escape.
Blind fury at this intrusion. With solidity its fists could find bloody
purchase; hammer out the beat of its weak and frantic pulsing. With no
fulfilment it twisted and turned on itself in whirlwind typhoons and
took itself far out into the ocean, readying an insane retribution.
Someday. Someday.

Madness gave the air form. Like the sea it sought strength. But no
kinship was theirs. Instead they tore at each other like maddened
twins. Like the sea, the air grabbed at all, but its power was of a
different sort. Paper barely stood aside for it. Twigs moved nervously
from its breath, but earth stood still. Its power was the loss of self,
crazy to die, it held no fear.
A couple wandered onto the beach.
With no time to gather its will, nature held itself in check. Panting,
it throbbed and pulsed. Poisoner. Short lived frailness holding few
weak elements in a balloon of flesh. Insignificance that irritated and
burrowed and blew until it itched the earth like an eczema.
They'd planned this weekend away for ages. He wore a nice thick woolly
jumper and clean green wellingtons and she did too. They'd stopped off
for a drink and popped to the beach for a walk. They drank in the
scenery.
A mad eyed seagull flew overhead shouting obscenities. Shellfish threw
hatred at them from their malevolent perches Rocks seethed in molten
cores full of bile.
The elements found a way to fight back, a way to cleanse itself of the
poison. Poisons that were put into nature didn't just stop in nature.
Like boils the crops erupted, like phlegm the water spilled. Fish and
flesh were like poison to the estranged organism that was man.
Nature cleansed the madness that sought to fill it. It felt a moment of
incredulous clarity as man feasted on its own filth. So out of
touch.
The couple stood on the beach and hugged each others layer clad bodies.
Each held their own thoughts. Each smiled at the beautiful serenity
that surrounded them. Like ignorant children, deaf to adult
conversation, they felt the blow of the wind and the kiss of the
sun.
Joanne was pregnant. They'd been trying for ages. This was a perfect
day. And here on this beautiful beach was the ideal time to let Clive
know.
She smiled to herself and turned her face to the wind. Their child.
Their future.
Later when they had left the beach, an arched piece of driftwood
interrupted the pattern of their footsteps in the sand. Inside, half
starved worms shrank from the encroaching salt, feeding on what little
wood remained before their tiny world fell in upon them and pallid
bodies expired in fiery salt water. They would die and float out to
sea, their bodies food for the marine floor. A whole new reality
awaited them.