Davey hops between rock pools, checking the base of cliffs for promising stones. Usually there's nothing. A flat faded ammonite if he's lucky. He wants to find an amethyst but knows that won’t happen on a cold beach on the coast of Norfolk.
One time he invited a girl named Suzy. She wore colourful tights and impractical shoes that kept slipping off in the sand. She’d found a round rock with a line through it. Then, laughing, threw it into the waves and dusted off her hands. He thought she looked like a gonk with her hair sticking up.
He comes alone now, running his hand over the warm surface of a rock exactly like the one Suzy had thrown away so many years ago, down to the ring of silver white that encircles it. He pulls out a little hammer and kneels, wincing at a pebble under his knee cap. He taps.
There is a crack. A puff of white dust. A noise like a yawn. Little Burgundy fingers tipped with the tiniest red claws stretch and curl around the rim of the stone egg. Davey eases the halves apart. There’s a red belly, banded in scales. Big yellow eyes. And teeth. Row upon row of tiny little scimitars. Davey gives the tummy a tentative prod. It’s hot to the touch. The thing hiccups and snaps at Davey’s finger, before wriggling round onto its feet. It unfurls wide leathery wings.
With a wag of its tail, it leaps forward, flapping furiously until it catches an updraft and sails into the sky. It swoops down to steal Davey’s lunch. Then, with a graceful hop, takes to the wing again and soars off over the ocean.
Davey looks at the remains of the eggshell.
Two halves. Lined with purple amethyst.
Jenny Hart is a writer from England with work published in Frazzled Lit Mag, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs and others. She lives across the road from a cemetery, with her two cats, Jason and Jeff.
You can follow Jenny on Instagram, Threads and Twitter/X using @JennyHart2001
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