ALL POSTS, storytelling

Call me when you get there.

Salvo’s anger steers him into a grudging silence. He is hurt, a betrayal of this kind for one so young tearing apart irreparably some long-held ideal of the truth of things to come, and he is yet to know the extent of the consequences his every choice dictates. He resolves to leave Theresa to it, to her new friends, her new life. What does he care? He is resolved to becoming a man, and so has no need for the friendships of children, of his childhood love. He clenches his fist once, twice, and resolves to retreat without a word. He will go home, stew in his bitterness and demand answers from his father. 

He stands, set in his purpose. But the knowing has never been that easy, and an escape for this young boy would be too convenient an choice. They see him, this small, lone figure, retreating despite all he has seen, all he has yet to do. 

Blockaded on the other side, Salvo stands, as of yet unaware that his presence has been realised. He creeps carefully, with all the care of a newborn fawn, scrupulous steps parting this way and that. He stands slowly, turns, ready to run down the sandy path that leads him homeward bound. 

But the man towers behind him, barring all entry to the path, the gentle calling of his mother, the worried rallying of his father for they are all searching for the two missing children. Panic is in the air, every living thing electrified with the brewing storm. The sea watches it all. 

The Eddy stands in terrifying wait for the boy. 

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