Ocean Is Ill
By E. Sedia
(This story was a winner of CONTAGION, a flash fiction contest by Kealan Patrick Burke.)


Illustration: Aaron Acevedo


When Father McDonagh grew old, he packed his bag and took the train east. He then took a bus, hitched a ride, and finally walked, his feet sinking with every step on the sodden sand. He ducked under the yellow tape that delineated the part of the beach eroded by recent storms, and staggered and weaved toward the recently condemned houses.

The storms took a bite out of the beach, and one of the houses stood, teetering, on the edge of a crescent lagoon. Father McDonagh watched piping plovers as they ran in and out of the surf, chasing after the waves and retreating before them in a mindless game. The ocean, sick-green, pounded at the sand, leaving grey puddles of dirty foam like vomit. The ocean was ill.

Father McDonagh went inside the house. There was nothing there – no furniture or electricity or windows or life. He took comfort in giving his fleeting warmth to the gutted blind house carcass, barren as gallows. He waited for the sun to set, listening to the even hissing of the sea just outside the bleached walls. He slept on the floor.

In the morning, he could barely open his fingers twisted by arthritis, and his back stooped in the cold and rheumy air. He went outside, to see what the ocean brought him, what it spewed up in the night, trying to purge itself. There were carcasses of dog sharks and seagulls, there were wreaths of seaweed and carvings of driftwood. Refuse.

That night the ocean crept closer, licking at the outside corner of the house. Father McDonagh lay awake, shivering in the damp darkness, trying to puzzle threats from promises in the ocean's incessant whisper.

The next morning, his nose dripped, and deep shivers seized his bones. He had no energy to walk and sat on the beach. The sun was hidden by the low, speeding clouds. If he stared upward long enough, he got the impression that the clouds stood still while he was being hurled into the void of the grey October sky.

The ocean deposited its gifts by his feet. Glass beads, straw hats, wind-up monkeys with mechanisms damaged by salt, discolored flowers, and dead seahorses. When the night came, he staggered back inside. The tide was high, and the ocean was at his doorstep. He fell asleep, lulled by a gentle tilting and creaking of the house.

It rained in the morning, but an occasional stray beam of sunshine sparkled on the green surface of the ocean. The house, detached from its foundation and the beach, bobbed on the waves, its empty shell cradling the dead priest inside. The salt water would bleach both into purity, absorb their dark memories, and heave the refuse onto another shore. The ocean would be forever sick from absorbed misery.