Elle paid attention to the ground more than her tour guide as she made her way across the beach. Long, stubborn grasses poked through shifting orange sand that threatened her footing with each careful step. She’d regretted the low-heeled boots at the top of the cliffs, where the bombs had left craters so deep it still felt like walking on a strange, grassy moon.
She wasn’t worried about finding the group if she fell behind. There were but ten people on the beach. But she had paid for the guided tour, and so she hurried her steps as much as she could until she stopped along the pool of rippled brown sand, wet and puddled with water.
The tour guide gave her a tight, close-mouthed nod from underneath his black golf umbrella and began his spiel about Normandy as soon as she came in range.
She studied the waves, slowly rolling up the beach, listening to the guide as he discussed the D-Day invasion of the second world war. Unfortunately, she was disappointed. She already knew most of the guide’s information already from stories her family had passed down, after her great-grandfather had barely survived the landing. She barely remembered him, but he’d passed on a love of history to her.
Being at Normandy was a dream come true. She felt the solemnity of the moment, the impact of those who had lost their lives still reverberating more than seventy-five years later. The inbound tide kicked her imagination into gear, and she blinked hard at the sight of ships on the horizon. Fishing boats, most likely, and they left so quickly Elle wasn’t even sure she hadn’t dreamt them into existence.
“The moon is an egotistical goddess, pulling at the waves, no? She is mesmerizing.”
Elle started, and stumbled. One pointed toe splashed into the puddle. “Ah, I’m sorry, I was woolgathering.”
The pale guide’s waxen skin shone under the umbrella. “So I see. But you are watching the waves. This is good, yes? Hypnotic.”
Elle nodded agreement without thinking, then caught herself. “I – er, I suppose, but I’m not quite sure what you mean. Why is hypnotic good?”
In her peripheral vision, she realized the other tourists stood eerily still, staring into the ocean. A woman’s long skirt floated behind her, pressing against her body without modesty adjustments. A ticket pinwheeled across the sand until it landed ever-so-lightly into the puddle. A tall man’s coat flapped like penguin flippers.
No one else was making a sound. She started to turn her head for a better view and caught the tour guide’s eyes instead. His red eyes? She blinked, and his irises were an uninspiring shade of brown.
“Who does not wish to stare into the sea meditatively? It brings peace, you see?” The man gestured toward the waves. “Do you not wish for peace?”
Elle’s body felt sluggish. Her gaze felt glued to the waves. “I…”
“They say the sea is especially salty here, because of all the blood that has been spilled,” the tour guide continued in a soft monotone. “It was delicious. My clan feasted for weeks upon the wounded.”
She struggled in despair to move. From the corner of her eye, she watched him lick his lips with a glimpse of fangs.
***
This week, I took a prompt from Padre and turned it dark: The waves rolled slowly up the beach. My suggestion went to Becky Jones: A laugh like a drunken llama.
