The Flying Squid

With the sun beating down on the little boy’s skin and the ocean waves grabbing at his toes, the little boy dashed back and forth on the shore. He couldn’t let the water reach his feet but his curiosity got the better of him. As the waves receded into the blue he inched closer wondering what would be revealed as the blanket slid over the sand. Though every time he had a moment to take a closer look, the waves would strike and he would shriek and dash back towards the shore.

His mother watched through rose tinted eye shades, ones much larger than her eyes. She didn’t fear the sun as she afforded a over sized floppy sun hat atop her head. She watched her child with a smile on her face and a half empty glass in her hand. Past the boy, the sun sparkled on the open ocean. A slimy head broke the surface of the sea and was unseen by anyone.

His shovel, thought the boy, would be an excellent tool to see how deep the sand went down. And so took he, the turquoise tool and commenced to carve the earth. A swath of sand sent tumbling behind the young boys head, as a gaping hole within the ground was rended deeper still. But planning was not the young boys forte and the ocean plotted to attack. The hole was growing more and more and the boy thought nothing of the sea. If only he remembered that the water was his enemy.

The young boy’s mother stood and chatted with some local beachians, about the weather and the world and who of them had sweeter kids. And so it was her back was turned when the wave came crashing down. It took the boy by stealth, you see, when his back was turned around. The young child marveled through his panic at the bubbles tumbling towards the sky. His mouth agape, they did escape, he quietly wondered where and why.

And as he drifted through the waves he remembered how he came to be, alone and scared and drifting through this endless ocean sea. Twas foolish, thought he, for me to dig so closely to the waterside. But wait! The tool with which he dug could of course be used to turn the tide. And so he found his hand still clenched around the turquoise shovel hence. He paddled his arms as quick as he could, but didn’t move as far as he should. Of course with the shovel in one hand and none in the other he was doomed to spin in circles.

As the young boy’s vision blurred and darkness clenched its jaws, he saw a squid swim up to him. He felt its suction cups stick to his skin and lift him from the ocean’s maw. The arms of which the squid had many began to spin like a flying machine. The boy could feel a cool breeze and the ocean spit and he could breath once again. Higher and higher they climbed towards the sky and the boy could see the shore again. He saw his mother gossiping oblivious to his absence. He saw what remained of his trench and let his shovel fall as his hand unclenched. And the squid and he flew away from the beach and flew as far as his thoughts could reach. They traveled to lands far away and there they lived the rest of their days.

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The Flying Squid was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Andrew G. Roberts.