Abandonement Beach

“They say at sunset on a clear evening, the mirrors all glow orange and meet in one spot, and if you sit there and close your eyes you can see the other side.”

“The other side s’not real, Birch.”

“Says who?”

“Says normal people.”

“Who’s normal nowadays?”

The glass twinkled on the beach in the evening sun. Spread all throughout the ground were shards of it from broken things. A big, rusty sign swings on its hinges saying ABANDONMENT BEACH. SHOES REQUIRED. Birch’s toes brushed the line of fiberglass sand and felt the prickles they caused like microscopic needles. Shoes in hand, she tossed them on the sand and squeezed her feet through too small sandals. She took one look at the greasy brown water with its hint of pale blue. Then Birch took off, leaving John in her dust.

"Hey wait up, Birch!"

"Keep up, John!"

They flew through the sand, stumbling around the broken glass and rusted furniture, ducking under pearly trees until they found their shack.



Built of crumbling floorboards and hair ties, it only stood four feet tall and six feet around. There was a plastic shower curtain as the door, decorated with ducks that had turned brown about a year ago. They crawled in, Birch first, John second, to find their piles of dusty treasure collected off the beach; fake precious jewels that had fallen out of bracelets, tarnished spoons, rotting ties, and an old threadbare blanket of a hideous honey hue - these were Birch’s favorites. John’s favorite abandoned piece was a blue teddy bear - the newest thing here. He grabbed it with pasty, stubby fingers and hugged it as a child would. He began to hum an old nursery rhyme quietly; Birch silently peered around for a specific seem.

“What’cha looking for, Birch?”

She turned around to stare at the boy. He was at least a head shorter than she, with wide, innocent eyes and a soft mouth half open. Birch thought he looked ridiculous holding that cotton-candy-colored bear.  She thought he looked like a toddler.

“Nothing important, Johnny Boy.”

Birch felt he was young enough for a little boy nickname, or at least acting young enough. She was tired of watching him rock back in forth, humming a baby song, holding a baby toy, thinking of Mom and Dad.

The sun through the curtain holes showed signs of a perfect sunset approaching. The air quieted, the waves grew calm, the water an oily shade of navy.

“It’s time to run home Johnny.   It's getting late.”

“But we just got here, Birch! I don’t want to go yet.” He put a whiney emphasis on here and yet, setting Birch’s teeth on edge.

“We have to, it's almost sundown. Come on, we got to go. Don’t make me drag you, Johnny Boy.”

She dragged John out of the shack, set him upright, and dared him to race her. A big smile lit his face as they sprinted back to the rusty sign. She let him win. At the beginning of grass she said goodbye to John and mumbled her house was a different way than his. She stood and waited for him to get out of sight before running back to the middle of the beach. Birch made sure she was in the cluster of mirrors, closed her eyes, and waited until she would feel all the mirrors glow. Five minutes passed, then ten, and after fifteen minutes, she thought she felt a little bit of warmth around her. Regaining hope, she felt a reel of film click-click-click behind her eyelids and an image began to form. It was herself, sitting on a bed full with lush pillows and fluffed blankets of royal golds and crushed velvet reds. She had the same face, same hair, same skin, but everything had a glow to it; her hair a brighter blonde with shiny short tendrils curling to her chin, her eyes a brighter sandy blue, her mouth and cheeks rosy. The Birch in the image started to smile, but soon a melodic voice sounded in Birch’s own ear, yet strangely enough dream-Birch turned her head. Real Birch – as she was calling herself now – watched as a beautiful blur of a woman walked in, took dream-Birch’s hand, and drew her away. The image faded, the last imageof Birch’s hand slowly waving as it disappeared into the unknown. Real Birch opened her eyes, and the sun was down, the ocean’s oil-slick black water was dead, the glass as still as before, and she was very confused. Birch refused to believe the hazy image was more than a daydream, because if that was the other side, she might lose all hope in the unexplainable. She stood up, slowly walked back to the shack, a frown embroidering her face, passed the curtains, and curled up in a ball on the ground of the horrid honey blanket. She reassured herself again that the mother and daughter were just a dream. Because Birch didn’t know of a world where she wasn’t apart of Abandonment Beach.