Short Stories

Short Stories



The house where I spend the summer is on one plateau. Ten meters above the sea. And just as many stairsteps to the beach.

I won’t go into the sea. There are red submarines and big fish in its waters. It is their territory. I don’t go down to the beach. There is too much sun and too many people, ready to bask in the sun for hours.

I sit on my plastic chair next to the plastic table, where the overflowing ashtray and my can of beer sit comfortably. And I look at the sea. I like to look at the sea. I love watching the waves. And the swimmers. And the little boats. And the ships. I like to look at the sea. That calms me down.

They say the best view of the sunset in these parts is from my hilltop. And here, right in front of my horizon, tourists come and take photos, take selfies… before the purple of the dying day. The local ones are also coming. Neighbors, and some closer or more distant locals.

They don’t bother me. They do not limit my view to infinity. On the contrary. Sometimes I find them cute. Especially when some young people will appear, a boy and a girl, and embraced they will look at someone’s death with delight, even if it might be the death of the day. “Ah, how wonderful,” the dreamy-eyed girl shall whisper. And the young man, gently and approvingly, will smile.

I’m not looking at the sunset. I’m not interested. I only look at the sea. Looking only in infinity.

Here the sun sets for a long time. Painfully. And that is precisely why I can never catch the moment when those few searchlights, placed on my plateau, light up. They seem to light up when it’s still daylight and when the new moon is barely visible in the sky, and the next moment it’s completely dark.

And then neither the stars in the sky nor the waves of the sea can be seen. Too much light always causes too much darkness.

I remain sitting on the plastic chair, next to the plastic table, with the can of beer in my right hand. I can no longer see anything but a blinding light. And I hear the sea waves. I like to listen to the waves of the sea at night.

And in the night, behind the floodlights, I hear the steps slowly walking up those ten steps from the beach to my plateau. I’m ready. I am waiting. I expect. I know. And as if an eternity has passed since he left, he appears – the Great Wave.

So tall and even wider, he stops a few centimeters from me. And he asks me: “What are you looking for here? Why don’t you enter the sea?”. I tell him that the sea is not my field, that there are red submarines and big fish, and that I really wouldn’t know what to do there.

Great Wave spreads his smile, or I think it’s a smile, about three meters wide and at least half a meter high. And it sucks me into itself. I try to put up with some resistance. I swim in the thick water. Or am I floating?

Luckily the unopened can of beer is firmly positioned in my right hand. I open the can. Some of the beer bubbles up into the water above my head. I immediately brought the can to my lips. The taste of beer and sea salt is interesting. I can’t drink up the can. Most of the beer melts in the wet mouth of the Great Wave.

The wave walks me through the sea. And not that I’m lying, but I did see a bunch of red submarines. And even more – big fish. And just as I was beginning to enjoy my vacation, I heard that dull sound, the one you hear when you’re deep in water. I realized that it was about walking on stairs. The wave brought me and sat me in front of the house where I was vacationing that year.

Only the sunset is visible from my plateau. The sunrise is not visible. Then it’s shadowy. And cold. And I’m sitting, all wet, on my plastic chair, next to the plastic table, with the empty beer can in my right hand.

My wife is an early riser. She wakes up with the first rays of the sun. She comes out on the porch and looks at me.

“Why are you wet?” she asks.

“I swam with the waves,” I reply.

“You’re insane,” she tells me.

And here, after so many years, I come, in the same place. And I’m not looking at the sunset. I do not care. I’m waiting for my wave.

AuthorZvezdan Georgievski
2023-10-01T12:25:48+00:00 September 9th, 2023|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 151|Comments Off on Short Stories