Egg salad and watermelon slices balanced on my knees,
Feet burrowed into the sand, neck craning the width of
The lake. Shaded by elms and poplars, unaffected by
The heat, no sweat confused our eyes.
On the far shore—before the speedboat appeared,
Careening across the rugged surface of the lake—
Colorful drops of paint dotted the sand, the
Larger ones men and women, we assumed, and
The smaller specks probably children, their bodies
Mixing and re-mixing under the uncaring blue sky.
It was as if—as if a rainbow had shattered,
And the pieces had dropped there. We watched
The scene obliquely, wondering incautiously if
There was a friend or relative among them.
So when the speedboat careened again, nervously
Battling the windblown waves, it was for me
Only a brief invasion of discomfort—a rude,
mechanical interruption and an explosion of white
Water. But then, amazingly, the bright red of the
Speedboat’s hull emerged from the spray, upside-
Down, floating over and past the frothy mist.
It impaled itself against the inconsiderate
Blue sky. But that was only my mind wishing it so.
Then it fell, as the laws of nature dictate,
Down, down, twisting, twisting. And so slowly!
An effect created by distance. But did it fall leisurely
Into the water, where my dull mind tried to throw it?
No longer a hull, but a missile, it fell onto the beach and splintered
into pieces, a hundred red shuriken flung outward into a fan shape,
The blissful Seurat replaced by an angry Pollock.
Streaks of color fled to the edges, perhaps people running.
Mixed with sand and umbrella parts were tinier specs, which,
As the mist cleared, I feared were parts of people.
My knees trembled at this thought, and I gripped the
Plate tightly, food being of odd importance.
All around me people stared at the far shore, shouting, waving,
Without calculation, like sawgrass in a surging wind,
Bent by the horror, twisting with dread. Did you see? Oh my God!
I looked at my food instead. Feeling fragile, small, useless.
You may have been touching me all along. You may have
Leaned into me and gasped. You may have called my name.
You may have said Peter! All those people! And those children!
But I was not aware of this, until after. Until after
The shouting, and the screams, and the spray, and the pieces
Had all settled. And there was only the sound of the wind.
And all the colors lay still against the sand. With
Your touch, I stopped trembling. With your touch,
I regained my distance from the horror on the far shore.
With your touch, I could separate from it. I felt the strength
To look up again at the indifferent blue sky.
We packed our unfinished picnic lunch with care,
Handling half-eaten sandwiches like rosaries. We
Held each other tight as we walked to our car, looked
Into each other’s eyes. The next morning, we turned to
The local paper. To page three. And searched for names.
Peter Hoppock’s short fiction has appeared in a variety of literary magazines, both online and print. Among them The Write Launch, Adelaide, Curbside Splendor, Dillydoun Review. In Palasatrium: substack.shortstory, “Blues For Rashid” was the June 2023 featured story, and “Familiar Territory” anchored issue 124 of Jersey Devil Press. He has also co-edited two anthologies of short stories and creative non-fiction published by Windy City Press: “Turning Points” (2021), and “Meaningful Conflicts” (2023). “Precipice” won honorable mention in the 2024 Black Orchid Novella Award contest.
