Georgia is six years old and dragging a forked stick down the length of an endless beach, leaving two trails like snake tracks following her footprints. Far behind, her mother sits alone, breathing lightly out of her equine nose. A sun hat is pulled over her eyes, and her teeth, small and white, are pressed together behind splotchy peach lips. Georgia does not look back at her mother but instead continues her toddling march, listening to the television static of the waves as they die on the shore next to her.
Georgia’s brown hair bounces against the baby fat of her back, and her neon-green one-piece swimsuit sticks to her like another layer of skin. For such a hot day in Santa Barbara, there’s almost no one on the beach; no dogs are barking, and no birds are circling overhead. No other footprints flank Georgia’s as she walks, humming a little song to herself. She heard it on the radio on the way here. Something smells like gasoline, and the sun burns angrily in the too-clear sky overhead.
She stops dead in her tracks when she notices that, coming from somewhere near her, another voice is harmonizing along to her tune. She stands quiet and waits—but now it’s silent (except for the waves), so she begins to walk again. Then, there it is: a voice, higher than hers, and beautiful, hanging crystalline in the air.
“Hello?” Georgia says quietly.
No answer. She walks slowly, gripping her stick tighter. Limbs of seaweed lie curled on the sand, rotting and turning the air sweet and salty. She hums tentatively.
Then, a few feet later, the voice returns—singing her song. Georgia turns around, whipping her stick up to fend off whatever it is that’s following her. But it’s nothing. Nothing, nothing. So she walks, slowly, her head on a swivel.
The voice doesn’t stop. It’s singing her song louder now, coming from somewhere out on top of the low waves. That’s when she sees the man looking out at the water. His skin is pale, almost clear in the light, and his stomach hangs low over his navy blue shorts. He lifts one hand, pointing up to his ear, and raises his eyebrows—like he can hear the voice, too. He seems to recognize the tune.
Georgia opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
The man turns to face the water again. Then, quickly, he starts to walk toward the bubbling surf. The voice is still singing. Georgia looks around for someone, something. The man doesn’t turn back to her. He steps into the water without pausing. His chest breaks the waves, and they pound his head. Water whips at his hair and then covers him entirely. Georgia can’t see him anymore. Then, just as it began, the song vanishes.
The sun goes down. In the car home, the song comes on the radio again. Georgia covers her ears.
TOM RONNINGEN is a senior Creative Writing student at Columbia College Chicago. His fiction and criticism have appeared in Daily Lobo and Key Route.