(Yet another English warmup task. We had to pick a setting that we are familiar with and write multiple paragraphs about it, but each time we had to change the mood, without specifically saying how the narrator is feeling or what's going on by "show don't tell" and yadda yadda ya.

I chose the beach that I live at, and so yeah, this is what I got.

FOR REFERENCE- The painting isn't of the beach I wrote about LOL)

~~~

It's quiet, save for the sound of gentle waves breaking on the sand, and the sharp cries of a seagull or two going about their day.

A slight change in the breeze sets the scarlet flowers on the big pohutukawa tree into motion again, and I watch them dance, a small nation of tiny ballerinas swaying cheerfully to music only they can hear. I, too, have music in my head. The tune of Jingle Bell Rock plays on repeat in my mind, and I find myself humming it out loud for them. The sun beams down at me, feeling the buzz over the time of year.

It's a nice day.

I don't usually like Summer, but this time, it's different.

The sand is soft and the ocean is crisp, I know you'd want to be here. All I smell is grass and flowers and salt. 

What a perfect day.

What a perfect, lovely, day.

What a beautiful beach.

~

It's quiet, save for the sound of shrieking seabirds, filling the air with their horrible choir notes.

How do they cry like that for so long, so loudly, and never lose their voice? Don't they tire? Is it that easy of a life for them?

Do they ever scream when one of their flock is lost, or eaten, or run over?

Thin red slivers fall from above, laying to rest with the other petals that blanket the hard ground. Some catch in my hair, brown locks tangled by the wind, or settle on my heavy shoulders. 

The salt on my cheeks isn't from the sea.

Throne Rock stands tall and solid, alone, outlined against the bowing green trees on the cliff that rises into a humble mountain, and disappears far behind me. The tide crawls achingly up the shore, aware of the changing season. The sky is the wings of a morpho butterfly, a rich blue with dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

I sit silently on the firm bank.

Autumn is approaching, and I'm not sorry to see the Summer go... Like you did.

The sand is coarse. The ocean bites. The faint stench of rotting fish and damp driftwood carries up to me. 

Gravel crunches under my feet as I leave.

Smashed glass and cigarette stubs scatter the parking lot like ugly confetti.

It's just another beach.

~

It's quiet. 

Of course it's quiet, you left me, you're gone.

It's windy. The sky is grey, the colour of the slate that was underfoot the day you told me how you felt, standing together, hands entwined, searching each other's eyes. 

The water retreats back to the safety of the surf, cautious of the fury clenched in my fists.

I don't touch the sand, or the grass. I'm sure the ocean is just as cold as I am.

I hate this beach.

~~~

(Wow, that escalated)