Private Property

Private Property

I gave up cutting and dyeing my hair years ago, also parties and socialising and all that nonsense. I do live in a normal house, unlike the hippy on the beach.

He was boiling up a kettle when I strolled that way early this morning. He was older than I’d presumed, that beard threaded with silver.

‘Fancy a brew?’ he called.

‘You do know this beach is private,’ I replied, instantly regretting it.

He just smiled. ‘And the view?’

I followed his gaze to where the sun-burnished sky met a gently rippling sea.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

Miranda 2022

Welcome to Friday flash fiction, hosted as ever (ah, there is some continuity in a crazy world!) by the esteemed Rochelle, and this week with a fantastically evocative seascape from Bradley Harris.

To sail away on a raft of stories (and with absolutely no travel restrictions or testing requirements) click here.

Happy New Year to all. In 2022, may you get a chance to misplace your phone, your shoes and all your troublesome obligations, if only for one long afternoon, and exchange secrets with the sky and the sea as you take a stroll along the beach.

Advertisement