Fiction: Paradise

[Rowsbette]

[image=left]http://www.alternativenation.net/gallery/files/5/8/4/1/DeckchairSmall.jpg[/image]The fresh salt air hit him like a slap in the face after the sweat-tinged smog of cigarette smoke that clouded the interior of the seaside pub. Hiccupping, the man stumbled out of the doorway and into the damp twilight, heading towards the beach.

It hadn’t always been like this, he thought ruefully as he passed the row of decrepit old hotels, now laced with ivy and flowering spangles of decay. Such whitewashed majesty reduced to muted relics of a bygone age. What a waste.

He didn’t really know who to blame for it, though it was at times like these (drunk and alone before darkness had even fallen) that he was at his bitterest. He liked to think the whiskey made him laid-back and philosophical but that was harking back to his youth – the taste still evoked cherished memories, but instead of a relaxed torpor he more often found himself stewing in his own hatred come the end of a night.

Not that this was the end of a night by a long shot.

“Drunk before teatime again?” the bartender, Jim, had snorted just before his best patron had stumbled out in the huff. “Your wife won’t be happy.”

Though always smiling, people could tell the decline in business had hit Jim hard by the web of burst capillaries that stretched across his cheeks and nose. Now the reams of tourists pouring through the door of the bar had given way to spatters of dejected locals drowning their sorrows, Jim could more often than not be seen nursing a tumbler of his own while he served the drinks, trying to liven up the atmosphere a bit. Always failing, of course. His once harmless jokes, too, had changed with the years, and were now barbed with acid designed to pierce to the core, even when talking to his best customers. Especially when talking to his friends.

The man was nearing the ocean now, missing the kerb where the concrete met the beach and tumbling face-first into the sand. He hauled himself to his knees and avoided the depressing sight of an abandoned concrete swimming pool, decorated now with a smattering of old litter. The rust-encrusted ladder looked ridiculous now the structure was dry, stretching as it did only a fifth of the way down the wall of the pool.

When had it happened? Who knew. One day the little town had been a bustling little haven of sunshine and laughter, the next it was virtually devoid of visitors with all the locals struggling to make a crust. Holidays abroad, that was the thing nowadays. Thirteen hours of sunshine a day, Jim’s brother said, and the beaches! Unbelievable, apparently. And though the flights added a little to the cost of the holiday, the money saved while over there more than made up for. Paradise, so he’d been told. Aye right.

“Melanoma and cheap booze,” the man sniffed now. “That’s not what I call a holiday.”

He began to climb the old set of steps to the pool edge, merely to view the decay. The decline of the town was a humiliation to him. Like an open wound, he picked at it constantly through alcohol abuse and pointless nostalgia, refusing to let it heal. For if not for his anger, what would he have left? The irritatingly old-fashioned bed-and-breakfast home that was lucky to make ends meet even at the height of summer? The doughy-faced stranger that had once been his wife? The little brats it embarrassed him to call his children? No thanks.

He reached the top of the steps and was stunned by the violence of the wind, for the beach had been sheltered by the wall of the structure on which he now stood. Lights on the adjacent shore sparkled briefly like tacky Christmas decorations, and were lost in a wraith of mist. Or was that just his sixth drink kicking in? Who knew. The ocean stretched ahead in a choppy blur before him, and he contemplated throwing himself off the edge in a glorious rebellion. Fat chance. Instead he thrust a handful of rocks into the gloom below, visualising them sinking into the bloodied gelatinous forms of jellyfish that clustered on the black rocks there. There was a little sadistic pleasure to be gleaned from such an image. And to think he had once been such a nice man.

Turning back to the swimming pool, he felt like the last man on earth, wandering lost in a ghost town. And yet everything was so achingly familiar.

“Sunbeds,” he snorted contemptuously, kicking the plastic skeleton of a lounger in blind, drunken fury. What a joke. In this part of Scotland you were more likely to develop a glow from getting severely weather-beaten, than from soaking up what little rays there were to be had. And yet it had once been enough for the British tourists.

Hit suddenly by a wave of tiredness, he sank onto the nearest sunbed, ignoring the creaks of protest. He expected to be awe-struck by a great expanse of star-studded black velvet, but found himself staring into a bank of cold, grey cloud. Bloody Scotland. It wouldn’t be like that abroad.

Here his mind began to release its grip on the anger and bile and drift into pleasanter territory. Why couldn’t he start over abroad? He may not be able to charm the female guests as he once had, but he still had the knack, the sparkle and the business sense to run a hotel well. He’d done it in Britain, why should it be any harder over there? Jim’s brother had, and he was an idiot. His kids were bright enough, they’d muddle by learning another language. And maybe all the sun would coax some life into that poor, jaded wife of his. It wouldn’t be that hard. Might as well give it a bash, instead of rotting away in this tacky shell of a holiday town.

“Spain…” he articulated drowsily, as if it were some huge solution to his problems, and not the impractical false hope he always resorted to after his initial spurt of alcohol-fuelled anger gave way to a melancholy goo of nostalgia.

“It’ll be better there,” he insisted to himself, refusing to acknowledge he’d spoken the words a thousand times before. They still had the power to heal, dampening his furious despair like a cooling salve. A smile began to twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Exhausted, he slumped further into the creaking plastic and succumbed to sleep, nursing empty dreams and fruitless optimism until the cries of the seagulls woke him at dawn.

[Robb]

I thought you said this was an oldie that wasn't very good? I wanted to slag you off! As far as stepping away from the usual this story has done it, I love the descriptions. Well done again.

[mischief]

I really liked this. I've enjoyed the other works that you've posted, but this had a different feel to it & I've got to say I preferred it.

Excellent.

[Crystal Mighty]

I don't really have anything to say, except that I should be getting ready for the Pixies in edinburgh and I stopped to read this, no higher praise, seriously

[Rowsbette]

Aw, thanks you lot.

I wrote this for school about a year ago (hence different tone, lack of swearing / sex references etc) but I still think it's got a bit too much descriptive mince in there. No offence to any Dunoon-ians, but it was inspired by the huge dead waste of time I spent there as a kid over the years.

[Ness]

i thought it was refreshingly good.

the descriptiveness of the story, makes it enjoyable, because in the end, thats the core message of the story, how gobshite this little town is.

brilliant sarah, keep it up.

[supernothing]

Propper bo, I wish I could write like that. Really good stuff. Has anyone ever read "Pieces": it's a collection of short stories from new authors and some of them are really amazing.

[Semprini]

That piece inspires me...to drop any farcical ideas that I may have about being able to even consider writing fiction.

I just couldn't do it that well.

[XMachina]

how long did the first draft take?

[Rowsbette]

Ocht... again, thanks.
It's much appreciated, especially since this isn't one of my personal favourites.

Can't remember how long it took to write, it was one of those "write a story while arsing about with MSN and websites" deals, but I'm sure I got it done within one evening. It was meant for my 6th year creative folio; being that I didn't complete sixth year, I never bothered re-drafting it.

[Seph]

Re-reading this now, at such a late hour, just having written myself.

This is the best piece of yours I remember reading, Ms.Rowsbette. A grand feat of literature that has not yet failed to inspire my own creative drive.