This Time

This Time

The drunken sailors recline on deck chairs around a mountain of burning rubbish in the old boatyard. Knocking back beers under the crisp night sky. I walk to the dumpster like a human wind-chime. An empty bottle hooked on every finger, until one slips from my pinky and shatters around my boots. Dad beats me for that. His calloused knuckles connect with my cheekbone. The sailors laugh at my bloodied face.

Jake isn’t laughing, he retreats to the shadows, his eye three days blacker than mine. We stand and talk among petrol cans and discarded furniture, fuelling the fire and our wanderlust for a place far from here.

Our fathers lapse into incoherent conversation. The fire still dances.

“Now,” Jake hisses, “Run.” He squeezes through a gap in the concrete wall with a full petrol can in his hand. I know this is it. No time for a fuck-you speech.

We sprint through grass that whips my legs, to a shed glistening silver in the moonlight. Inside is Dad’s baby. His project car, midnight-blue with white racing stripes. Custom-built 400hp petrol engine and fast as lightning. 

Dad’s voice roars across the cliffs. Fuel splashes from the can against the wide rim of a funnel. Most of the liquid goes into the tank, the rest evaporates from Jake’s sneakers. 

“Jake, hurry! Get in!”

He starts the engine, slams his foot on the gas. Dad stumbles along the sandy track, defiant as we race towards him.

“Jake,” I whisper, but I know we cannot stop. This time, we will make it out of town and never come back. 

I shout through the open window, “Dad. Move!”

The tall grass ripples against the stormy sea air and Dad dives in. In the side mirror I see the final glimpse of him, caught in the tangle.

 I mumble a sea-shanty, the one he taught me.

A sailor lost in the waves.


Leanne Jepson writes short stories in her car at the beach, in her hometown on the South Island. 

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