A Walk On The Wild Side

By Augusta Stirton

'A Walk on the Wild Side' is a book of short stories, each one has a unique twist to it. Being Augusta Stirton's debut collection, it is a mixture of narrative tales, science fiction, fantasy, and surrealism to entrance the reader. The poems in this volume have previously been published as part of an anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Augusta Stirton
• Release date: Jun 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310273599

Book preview

A Walk On The

Wild Side

By Augusta Stirton

Smashwords edition

© 2013 Augusta Stirton

All rights reserved. Apart from any use under UK copyright law no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

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CONTENTS

The Beachcomber

Delusions of Grandeur

A Dish Best Served Cold

In My Mothers Footsteps

A Little Patch of Paradise

A Short Love Story

October 22nd

A Walk on the Wild Side

Trees in a Landscape

A Fallacy

A Winter’s Tale

One Day in Spring the Mayfly Danced

Upwardly Mobile

When I Was a Little Girl

A Victorian Childhood Remembered

At Last She Flees

The Love Song of the Magpie

The Walthamstow Superman

Three’s a Crowd

The Inheritance

The Beachcomber

What if, while walking along the beach, quietly daydreaming, you were to start running, and as you ran, you felt yourself taking off into the air. Would you believe me if I said this had happened to me?

It was about 6 O’clock on the morning of June 21st, a few years ago now. I was beachcombing on Mounts Bay, along that wide stretch of sand between Long Rock and Marazion, where all the interesting bits of driftwood and seaglass get washed up after a storm. The tide was out as far as the Mount with the causeway clearly visible. I was just thinking to myself that it had been ages since I had found anything interesting along the tideline. I turned over a clump of seaweed with a stick, dislodging a cloud of sand flies all lying in wait to bite any unsuspecting bits of exposed flesh. Something glittered against the dark of the wet sand, I crouched down for a closer look, batting the hungry insects away from my face. What I found was an old wooden box, smashed and battered by the sea as it had been washed ashore, its contents spilling out amongst the glittering fronds of wet seaweed. There was a mixture of coins and bits of jewellery, beads and bangles rolling loose amid the dull brown and shiny silver of the coins. Carefully I gathered them all together and dropped them into the plastic carrier bag I always carry with me in case of finding anything interesting, stowing it safely in my small rucksack.

I carried on with my walk to Marazion, and as I came alongside St. Michaels Mount, I had a sudden urge to run. I was childlike and free, the damp air stroked my face and pushed its fingers through my hair. As I ran, my feet lifted off the ground and I rose into the air. It was like swimming, I moved my arms and legs in a breast stroke, discovering as I did so that I could propel myself, I looked down at the metallic sheen of the sea below me. Over the bay I went, past the Mount, over the rooftops of Marazion, just waking up, and headed off towards The Lizard. I stopped at Porthleven, treading air to watch the flotilla of trawlers heading in for the day, seagulls circling and swooping around them, calling and shouting to each other, searching for scraps thrown overboard.

I hovered for a while, then went inland, gliding over the trees and woodland to Helston, where I watched the town stretch and yawn into wakefulness in the morning sunshine. The people were like little animated dolls, scurrying around, going about their own business. Circling round, I retraced my journey and headed back towards the coast and Penzance.

Following the bay round, I could see in the distance glinting car windscreens on the road from Mousehole and Lamorna, down through Newlyn, along the promenade road and in to Penzance. Hovering over the sea, I watched some figures splashing and frolicking in the waves. I wasn’t sure, but I out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sparkle as the sun caught droplets of water on what I took to be scales, maybe it was the just light playing tricks with my eyes. One of them waved, beckoning me to join them.

I dropped down and leaving my clothes on the sand with my bag, ran down to the beach and in to the sea. The sudden cold as I plunged into the water sent a tingling jolt through my body. Exhilarated, I swam out towards the figures in the distance, but no matter how far I swam, they were always beyond my reach. By now the tide had turned and as I was feeling weary, I just let the waves carry me back to the beach, the figures in the distance waving to me.

Back home, I emptied the bag on to the kitchen table and started to sort through the contents. The box was beyond repair, but the pieces of wood could be salvaged and re used if only for display purposes. There were all sorts of bits and pieces, beads, bits of chain, shiny glass, gems and coins. Carefully I cleaned them in a bowl of warm soapy water, using an old toothbrush kept especially for this purpose, to gently dislodge the more stubborn sand and dirt.

Over the next few weeks, I remade all the gems and beads into new pieces, necklaces, bracelets, brooches and earrings, displaying them in my shop draped over bits of wood from the old box. By the end of the Summer I had sold almost every piece, my little shop had been busier than I could ever remember, keeping me up late into the night making more pieces to replenish stock. Each item made from the salvaged stock I sold, I placed one of the old coins in the package.

As the autumn came in, it grew cooler and I started to go beachcombing on days when I was closed rather than the early mornings before I opened for the day. I still picked up bits and pieces of flotsam for sculptures and for painting on, but nothing as interesting as the treasure chest from mid-Summer. Autumn turned to winter, bringing with it sharpness in the air. Biting winds whipped across the bay sending huge waves crashing against the sea wall.

A few days before Christmas, the shop was busy with the usual last minute rush of people looking for unusual gifts for their loved ones, something I was especially good at providing. At the end of the day as I swept the floor and tidied up, I noticed what looked like a