People assume that I’m messing about. Or it’s a game I play with my grandkids. They’re wrong. It’s ugly, brutal fear.
It started on 17th May, 1962, when The Genevieve sank 100 miles south of Sumatra.
Only me and Able Seaman Herbie Robinson survived, sat either end of a single plank ripped from the decking. Fifteen days, we gripped that plank as we teetered and tottered, up and down.
Waves taller than houses. Endless days.
Rising, falling, rising, falling.
That’s why, if I even glimpse a see-saw, I have to grip tight of something and scream until I’m rescued.
#FLASHFICTION101 AUGUST 2020 SHORTLISTED ENTRY
All work remains copyright of the owner. No reproduction of this work is permitted without written permission from the author detailed here. If you wish to contact the author, please get in touch with Tortive Theatre.