The Call of the Sea

By John Heap

Why do tears taste of the sea?
John Heap’s debut short story begins as Peter meets Maria on a deserted shore of a British seaside town. Peter is fascinated with Maria, but Maria is fascinated with the sea, a dark elemental obsession that echoes back to her family and to the origins of life itself. Can Peter save Maria from herself and the planetary forces that seem bent on her destruction?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Heap
• Release date: Nov 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301468263

John Heap

John Heap was born in Rochdale, England. Moved to Liverpool for degree in Zoology, and discovered climbing. Met girl, stopped climbing. Learnt programming and wrote computer games. Lost girl, lost fitness, wasted decades worrying about things that didn’t matter. Dot com bubble burst, lost lots of money but gained lots of time. Took a break, stopped smoking and began to learn to write. Started climbing again, regained fitness, found a girl, moved to Shropshire, got married. Still learning to write.

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The Call of the Sea

By John Heap

Copyright 2012 John Heap

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The Call of the Sea

It was early morning and Peter Farris, camera bag over his shoulder, was walking along a deserted Marine Drive in Southport. He was supposed to be working but that morning the light was flat, grey and disappointing. Noticing the bright beads of water collecting on his fleece he realised that the once soft drizzle was now more insistent and that his waterproof was still in his bag. He looked up ahead to see a brightly painted shelter guarded by a solitary gull perched on the seawall railings. On reaching the shelter, he nodded to the gull but then stopped, startled by the presence of a young woman. After an awkward moment of indecision, he sat down.

She looked across at him.

He removed his jacket from the bag and spent a long time putting it on; his goal of a smooth action followed by a smooth exit confounded by the awareness of being observed.

But to be fair he was observing too.

At art school he had unwittingly developed an ‘artist’s eye’, and from even the briefest of glances he was building up a picture of the girl. She was casually dressed, with faded jeans and an equally faded t-shirt, over which she wore a dark tan leather jacket. She looked eastern European; perhaps Polish and her short dark hair matched her equally dark eyes set above striking cheekbones. Peter had never seen such striking cheekbones.

After lovingly re-fastening his bag, he looked out to the sands. Out there, at a distance almost beyond reckoning, was the economical line that