Nightswimming
Story: one shot
Rating: PG-13 for non-sexual nudity
Word Count: 1305
Summary: Account of a lonely girl who goes skinny-dipping with her more attractive and out-going friends. Using the song lyric prompt 'Nightswimming deserves a quiet night'.
Notes: Stream-of-consciousness experiment that ends up with a long of comma and semi-colon abuse. And some hideously long sentences. Not necessarily a good idea.
It should be a night quieter than this. It was just the right amount of darkness, the right cloud cover. The stars twinkled through, without being distracting. The light from the street lamp, orangey glow, trickled just far enough. It bathed the car in rusty specks of falling dust; it was a good sight when you tilted your head behind you to see it, parked on the tarmac. But it didn't stretch over to you; up to your back, maybe, lit your shoulder blades. It didn't reach the water. That was lit only by the pinpricks of starlight a million, million miles away, and even deader than I felt. It was a new moon tonight, and I wondered if we'd planned it like that.
They weren't the planning type. They'd bundled into the car, packed everything, whooping and cheering. They were cheering now, rushing down into the waves, splashing and screaming at each other, hastily dragging their kit off and throwing it here, there, everywhere. There was magic about doing this, and they killed it. It felt irreverent. I stayed over by the rocks. I always preferred the rocky part more, cooler as it was. Nights like this; it should be cold.
I took my clothes off, packing them down into my tiny bag. I hesitated at the shirt. I hadn't bothered to wear a bra, but there wasn't much to hide in the first place. I shot a careful look over to the rest of them, playing in the soft sand, in the middle part of the shore, where the waves were most obvious. Where they would have swarmed under the hot sun of the afternoon. Then I pulled the t-shirt up over me, over my head, over my arms, and threw it, a little triumphantly, into the sand. It didn't matter if someone looked over, it was too far a distance, too dark to see an awful lot. And what were they going to see? Skin, a bit, that was all, that was nothing scary, and I knew these people for goodness's sake. Surely they'd seen me naked before?
As I pulled my pants down around my knees, I realised that they hadn't. Did that mean I'd led a sad and sort of pathetic life? Had anyone actually seen what I looked like, stark, stark naked? I shivered, and stepped out of my pants, leaving them on the top of the pile of clothes. The breeze was cool and welcoming.
I was hunched and awkward; I bent my body over so that no one could see even though no one was watching. My ankles were first in the water, cold cold cold, rising up over my shins, oh god cold.
And they were still shrieking and gasping and killing it all. It felt like they were the ones who had done this a hundred, hundred times, and I was the new one. I settled down between the rocks.
They were sharp and harsh, and scraped all along my skin. The soft flesh of my things, the backs of my legs, they settled into them, digging holes, gashes and gaps that I would run my fingers over wincing tomorrow morning, with or without cream. I couldn't remember if I'd thought to buy any beforehand. Probably hadn't. This wasn't planned, moon or not.
The whole time, I was painfully aware of my breasts. They felt pendulous, silly, hanging there, even though they couldn't be anything nearing pendulous because they were the smallest breasts I'd ever known of. I was about to say 'that I'd ever seen', but I was beginning to doubt if I'd looked at enough naked people to know. Maybe I hadn't lived enough.
They were fine, over there, seeing each other naked, getting other naked, splashing water all over each other and touching each other and rubbing against thighs and stomachs and breasts and chests, and not one of them was awkward or odd or weird; they were just having fun. It wasn't anything to do with sex, they were just enjoying themselves.
I love to sit in the water at night, in the dark, without my clothes on, but I don't like deep water, dark water, and I never have. I couldn't swim, couldn't move further from my place in the rocks, my safe little haven, cave, the womb of sharp, spiky towers that dug into my back and my arms and my legs. My breasts still felt like they were hanging there.
It was ugliness, I realised eventually, that I was feeling. I was looking across at girls with tans and fine legs, who had effortlessly disposed of little tie-up bikinis and fashionable shorts, and left them at artistic angles sprayed across the beach. I was looking at men who were men, who could laugh deep belly laughs, and who knew how to make everyone around them erupt into giggles, who could tickle the girls and get away with it, who could grin sideways, crooked in the starlight and it made them look gorgeous and interesting. Girls who huddle up in a ball in the rocks don't look gorgeous or interesting.
I stood up, grazing my spiky, spiny, pokey-out shoulder blade against the rock. Without a backward glance at the others - they had seen, they had stopped for a moment, they were turning and looking; I could sense it and I wouldn't turn my head - I stepped out of the water and onto the sand with as much grace as I could manage, knowing I had none. Long, spindly, gleaming, pale, things-that-have-been-dead-too-long-white legs, covered over in hairs that stood quivering on end. Like the knees were giant hinges they were joined to, they bent awkwardly as I stumbled out of the sea. Arms much the same, huddling round my chest, my back curved. As though those two tiny little globes would do anyone a scrap of good, or bad, to see. I was blue all over now, I knew it, there was nothing good-looking about this; this was wet and shivering, and cold and blood trying to stop moving at all. Hair falling all about me, no elegance, nothing wild and free and glorious, it was messy tangled snarled wet wet wet dripping hopeless. The sand stuck to the soles of my feet, started creeping up my ankles, itching itching, and I couldn't bend down to scratch. Don't give them the satisfaction, don't let them see discomfort even though they've seen you drag your startling white blank body out of the ocean, like a blind monster that lives where there is no light. They wouldn't get back on with their game, not until I'd stepped off the beach, bag of clothes in hand, clutched with my hair dripping down all over it.
I didn't put my clothes back on, or reach for a towel to cover myself. Where I'd first been embarrassed, then ashamed, now I didn't care. Or, I did care, but standing naked made me feel all the more tragic, hopeless, a misunderstood heroine, instead of the failed young adult who didn't know how to live a little. I was stood bolt upright, back never so straight, every bump of my spine visible, as lumpy and sharp as the rest of me. The light from the street lamp reflected it back to the people on the beach, who did not look any more at the wavering, wet, naked form that stood on tarmac. It didn't hurt my feet like it should. The sand still itched. I just stood beside the car, facing away from the sea, to the dark hills and the heath and the heather, where the children fly their kites in the day. The tarmac started pricking through the soles of my feet. I dug my toes in deeper.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
(Story Index)
Rating: PG-13 for non-sexual nudity
Word Count: 1305
Summary: Account of a lonely girl who goes skinny-dipping with her more attractive and out-going friends. Using the song lyric prompt 'Nightswimming deserves a quiet night'.
Notes: Stream-of-consciousness experiment that ends up with a long of comma and semi-colon abuse. And some hideously long sentences. Not necessarily a good idea.
It should be a night quieter than this. It was just the right amount of darkness, the right cloud cover. The stars twinkled through, without being distracting. The light from the street lamp, orangey glow, trickled just far enough. It bathed the car in rusty specks of falling dust; it was a good sight when you tilted your head behind you to see it, parked on the tarmac. But it didn't stretch over to you; up to your back, maybe, lit your shoulder blades. It didn't reach the water. That was lit only by the pinpricks of starlight a million, million miles away, and even deader than I felt. It was a new moon tonight, and I wondered if we'd planned it like that.
They weren't the planning type. They'd bundled into the car, packed everything, whooping and cheering. They were cheering now, rushing down into the waves, splashing and screaming at each other, hastily dragging their kit off and throwing it here, there, everywhere. There was magic about doing this, and they killed it. It felt irreverent. I stayed over by the rocks. I always preferred the rocky part more, cooler as it was. Nights like this; it should be cold.
I took my clothes off, packing them down into my tiny bag. I hesitated at the shirt. I hadn't bothered to wear a bra, but there wasn't much to hide in the first place. I shot a careful look over to the rest of them, playing in the soft sand, in the middle part of the shore, where the waves were most obvious. Where they would have swarmed under the hot sun of the afternoon. Then I pulled the t-shirt up over me, over my head, over my arms, and threw it, a little triumphantly, into the sand. It didn't matter if someone looked over, it was too far a distance, too dark to see an awful lot. And what were they going to see? Skin, a bit, that was all, that was nothing scary, and I knew these people for goodness's sake. Surely they'd seen me naked before?
As I pulled my pants down around my knees, I realised that they hadn't. Did that mean I'd led a sad and sort of pathetic life? Had anyone actually seen what I looked like, stark, stark naked? I shivered, and stepped out of my pants, leaving them on the top of the pile of clothes. The breeze was cool and welcoming.
I was hunched and awkward; I bent my body over so that no one could see even though no one was watching. My ankles were first in the water, cold cold cold, rising up over my shins, oh god cold.
And they were still shrieking and gasping and killing it all. It felt like they were the ones who had done this a hundred, hundred times, and I was the new one. I settled down between the rocks.
They were sharp and harsh, and scraped all along my skin. The soft flesh of my things, the backs of my legs, they settled into them, digging holes, gashes and gaps that I would run my fingers over wincing tomorrow morning, with or without cream. I couldn't remember if I'd thought to buy any beforehand. Probably hadn't. This wasn't planned, moon or not.
The whole time, I was painfully aware of my breasts. They felt pendulous, silly, hanging there, even though they couldn't be anything nearing pendulous because they were the smallest breasts I'd ever known of. I was about to say 'that I'd ever seen', but I was beginning to doubt if I'd looked at enough naked people to know. Maybe I hadn't lived enough.
They were fine, over there, seeing each other naked, getting other naked, splashing water all over each other and touching each other and rubbing against thighs and stomachs and breasts and chests, and not one of them was awkward or odd or weird; they were just having fun. It wasn't anything to do with sex, they were just enjoying themselves.
I love to sit in the water at night, in the dark, without my clothes on, but I don't like deep water, dark water, and I never have. I couldn't swim, couldn't move further from my place in the rocks, my safe little haven, cave, the womb of sharp, spiky towers that dug into my back and my arms and my legs. My breasts still felt like they were hanging there.
It was ugliness, I realised eventually, that I was feeling. I was looking across at girls with tans and fine legs, who had effortlessly disposed of little tie-up bikinis and fashionable shorts, and left them at artistic angles sprayed across the beach. I was looking at men who were men, who could laugh deep belly laughs, and who knew how to make everyone around them erupt into giggles, who could tickle the girls and get away with it, who could grin sideways, crooked in the starlight and it made them look gorgeous and interesting. Girls who huddle up in a ball in the rocks don't look gorgeous or interesting.
I stood up, grazing my spiky, spiny, pokey-out shoulder blade against the rock. Without a backward glance at the others - they had seen, they had stopped for a moment, they were turning and looking; I could sense it and I wouldn't turn my head - I stepped out of the water and onto the sand with as much grace as I could manage, knowing I had none. Long, spindly, gleaming, pale, things-that-have-been-dead-too-long-white legs, covered over in hairs that stood quivering on end. Like the knees were giant hinges they were joined to, they bent awkwardly as I stumbled out of the sea. Arms much the same, huddling round my chest, my back curved. As though those two tiny little globes would do anyone a scrap of good, or bad, to see. I was blue all over now, I knew it, there was nothing good-looking about this; this was wet and shivering, and cold and blood trying to stop moving at all. Hair falling all about me, no elegance, nothing wild and free and glorious, it was messy tangled snarled wet wet wet dripping hopeless. The sand stuck to the soles of my feet, started creeping up my ankles, itching itching, and I couldn't bend down to scratch. Don't give them the satisfaction, don't let them see discomfort even though they've seen you drag your startling white blank body out of the ocean, like a blind monster that lives where there is no light. They wouldn't get back on with their game, not until I'd stepped off the beach, bag of clothes in hand, clutched with my hair dripping down all over it.
I didn't put my clothes back on, or reach for a towel to cover myself. Where I'd first been embarrassed, then ashamed, now I didn't care. Or, I did care, but standing naked made me feel all the more tragic, hopeless, a misunderstood heroine, instead of the failed young adult who didn't know how to live a little. I was stood bolt upright, back never so straight, every bump of my spine visible, as lumpy and sharp as the rest of me. The light from the street lamp reflected it back to the people on the beach, who did not look any more at the wavering, wet, naked form that stood on tarmac. It didn't hurt my feet like it should. The sand still itched. I just stood beside the car, facing away from the sea, to the dark hills and the heath and the heather, where the children fly their kites in the day. The tarmac started pricking through the soles of my feet. I dug my toes in deeper.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
(Story Index)