The Strand

Dara climbed slowly up the tallest sand dune, letting the seagrass prick and tickle his bare legs. It was hard work; the sand was so powder-soft it slid down with his every up-step, but it was warm and delicious under his toes so Dara didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Reaching the top of the sand dune, he rested his palm for a moment on his thundering heart. A gust of swirling salt-fresh wind flung itself at Dara’s cheeks, like a whirl- about hug from a long-lost friend. He laughed aloud, breathless and triumphant. Flinging his arms wide, he let his T-shirt billow like a sail and he giggled again as the fast, wild air cooled his sticky skin.

Back at home the world felt all solid and real. Like it was held together with screws and nails and hinges. At home there were just the facts of things – he was Dara Merriam; he was twelve years old; he got up at 7.30 on schooldays, 8.30 at weekends; he liked bananas; he did not like pineapple; he always remembered to brush his teeth before bed and never forgot to take his pills. But here, by the sea, on holiday, all the facts of the world loosened and stretched and softened somehow. This morning he’d woken up at sunrise and gone outside in his bare feet beneath the pinkening sky, just to watch the world wake up, just because he could.

Continue reading the extract here…