DeScribe

Hey. I thought I'd post something here to kickstart the workshop forum. I wrote this for a local publisher, black dog books, who are putting together a collection of horror(ish) stories for readers aged 10 - 14 called short & scary. Unfortunately, the submission window closed in January. I found this through the Victorian Writers' Centre - when you join as a member, they send you a eZine each week and a newsletter once a month with links to current opportunities. If you have a few pieces you want to get published, it's worth the $45 a year.

So anyway, I haven't workshopped this (apart from my little sister) and I'm curious as to what people think. Cheers.

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“Don’t eat from those roadside stalls,” Mum says, “or you’ll get food poisoning. Jimmy from reception will take you to the dive shop. I’ve already paid for your lesson, so just take enough money for a soft drink. Make sure you don’t have any ice in it.”
“Come on, Mum,” I say. “I know how to snorkel. And I can walk to the dive shop by mysel—”
She cuts me off like a sheepdog herding a runaway lamb. “You don’t know how to snorkel in Thailand. I don’t want you wandering around town alone. You’re only thirteen. Okay? And don’t forget sunscreen.”
“Okay,” I mumble. I know better than to argue with Mum when she’s like this.

Instead of going through reception, I sneak out along one of the alleyways behind the resort. It’s so hot. My thongs make loud whaps as they stick to the gooey asphalt before slapping against my heels. People smile at me and I smile back. Even though lunch was a couple of hours ago, I stop to buy satay sticks from a man with teeth like sawn-off stumps in the mangroves. I hand him a note and start chewing the meat off the bamboo slivers. Suddenly, he taps me on the shoulder. “Don’t you want your change?” he asks, pushing notes into my hand.

I’m the oldest kid at the dive class by at least two years. It’s humiliating. The dive shop feels like a parked car with the windows wound up in summer. We get this endless lecture about things that will never happen: shark attacks, tsunamis, drowning. Don’t do this, don’t do that. Holidays shouldn’t be about don’ts, they should be about dos.
Do new things!
Do take chances!
Do have fun!
We’re handed flippers and snorkels and as we’re filing through the sunbathers, I duck behind a yellow beach umbrella and take off down the beach, away from the crowds.

I do all the right things before I get wet: check the depth, the current and the underwater channels that show where any rips are. But the water is dead calm. Low tide. And I have this whole section of beach to myself. Sweet.
There’s this small island just offshore, a block of grey cliffs with a head of jungle rising out of the sand. There has to be awesome fish hanging around something like that, I think. I put my head down and flipper through the soft, warm water. Easy.

I’m almost a third of the way ‘round the island when this nagging ache starts plucking at my guts. The ocean clicks and whooshes. It’s not crazy deep here, maybe four metres. I come up for a breather, and that’s when I see this little sign hammered into the rock. It’s written in Thai, all dots and curves, but you can’t mistake the picture – a mask and snorkel behind a big red circle and slash. Don’t snorkel here. Maybe there are underwater caves, or a shipwreck? Sweat pushes the seawater off my forehead. I feel ... terrible, really, but I have to see why that sign is there.

On the ocean side of the island, there’s a big inlet shaped like a horseshoe. The cliffs soar into the blue sky on either side. The current almost pushes me inside the inlet. I’m about halfway across when I realise the water is different here. It’s cold. Real cold, like the ocean in Victoria. This close to the island, I can’t see the afternoon sun anymore, so I tread water and rinse my mask out. It’s so dark. I’m shivering by the time I get it back on.
When I put my face underwater again, the murky sand down there has changed. It ... it’s shaped like people, lying down, but fat and bloated. Lumps for heads and humps for bodies, with sandy arms and legs all tangled between the seaweed. I blink and rub my mask, but they’re still there. I stare at them, and gradually, I realise some of them are staring back. They don’t have eyes. Just water, rippling across the sand and making places that look like eyes.
And mouths, opening and closing. Sucking in nothing but seawater.
The arms and legs writhe through the dark water, like they’re reaching for me. I can’t tell if they want me to pull them up, or ... if they want to pull me down. To lie with them. In the clicks and whooshes of the ocean, there are other noises. High pitched squeals. Horrible gurgles. Some of the sandy shapes aren’t as big as the others. Some are tiny.
All of a sudden, I realise that I’m going to spew. But I just can’t do it here in the water. Not with them down there. I thrash across to a small ledge that lies just above the water, pull myself onto it and tear out my snorkel. Everything comes up on the back of that ledge, the satay and lunch, but none of it gets in the water. That seems important.
I rock back and wipe my mouth, and that’s when I see the second sign. This one is written in Thai and English. Many tourists and locals drowned in the Boxing Day Tsunami, it says. Dozens of them washed into this inlet. They lay together for days until the exhausted search parties found them. Nearly all of them were never identified. May their souls rest in peace.
I’m sick again, longer, until nothing comes out. Afterwards, I tremble on the ledge. I can’t climb the cliffs. The only way out of here is swimming back out of the inlet. Over ... that sand. I feel too weak.
It’s low tide and the ledge is already within touching distance of the water.
How long until someone realises where I am? Before dark?
I wish I was back at the resort. Or back in school. Or anywhere.
I don’t want to be here with the drowned.