WEIRD & WONKY WORLD WRITING CHALLENGE

The See Shore

         Myrtle sighed and sniffed the refreshing sea air. Squinting she noted the shimmering horizon. The sound of wave after wave crashing onto the nearby shore sure beat the usual din of traffic. Her bare toes snuggled into the warm sand. She couldn't remember the last time her feet had not worn orthopedic shoes. About to open the novel nestled in her lap, Myrtle turned as her fellow nursing home friend spoke.

         "Wouldn't you agree, Myrtle? The activities coordinator outdid herself this time. I can't believe we're at the beach. This is much better than another game of euchre."

         In reply, Myrtle nodded and nudged Hester's elbow.

         "What do you think has taken George's rapt attention then? What could he be staring at?"

         Both women gaped at the big, balding man obscured by the largest set of binoculars they'd ever seen. If it wasn't for the subtle and regular rise and fall of his chest, he could be mistaken for a statue.

         Hester shattered the silence. "Yoohoo, George. Earth to George. What's so fascinating? Have you spotted some kind of bird?"

         With a clearing of his throat, George rumbled, "You could say that."

         Myrtle crowed, "Well is it or not? I had no idea you were an ornithologist, George. I must say you have surprised me."          

Without removing the binoculars, George growled, "A what now?"

         "Bird watcher. Does the object of your considered attention have feathers?"

         "No, not that you could say. It's definitely a female though. She's strutting about."

         Hester snorted. "What species of bird has no feathers? Are you trying to tell us you've spotted a penguin? Isn't the plumage a clue as to gender?"

         "Trust me, this bird has breasts, er, I mean a breast."

         Hester scoffed. "I believe the correct terminology is chest. Don't all birds have breasts?"

         George smirked, "Not like this chickie."

         During this exchange Myrtle had struggled to her feet and approached the unaware George. Without a word she snatched the binoculars from his grasp and hefted them to her own eyes. After a few seconds of fumbling she zeroed in on a striking image.

         "Tell me, George. Does your bird have blonde hair?"

         "Blonde?" echoed Hester.

         She saw the colour blossom across his face as he refused to look her in the eye. He had the decency to squirm as Myrtle answered.

         "Hester dear. It seems we have been placed next to a nudist beach. Nothing is left to the imagination."

         Hester gasped. "Do you mean people are starkers?"

         "Yep, as the day they were born. A few are wearing smiles. I see two with moustaches. It's odd, but no one is wearing a hat. Do you want a peek?"

         Hester accepted the viewfinder and trained them in the general direction Myrtle had been watching.

         She whispered, "Aren't we intruding? Isn't this what a voyeur does? Do you think that behaviour is freeing? I have so many questions. Would you do it, Myrtle dear? Could you let it all hang out?"

         "I dunno. Maybe when I was younger. Gravity has not been kind. Besides there are two compelling reasons to keep my clothing on. First, I answer to a thing known as modesty. Secondly, I believe I'd miss pockets. Where do nudists carry their keys, their change, their tissues? Could they refer to their coins as pocket change?"

         George piped up. "And pocket protectors."

         Hester shook her head. "Excuse me?"

         "I once was an accountant," explained George. "I always had pens to carry in my shirt pocket. To prevent the inevitable ink stains, I had a pocket protector. Where would I carry them if I was naked? Tucked behind an ear?"

         Myrtle chuckled. The image of hulking George employed as a mild-mannered, meek geek amused her.

         "I bet your employer never accepted that type of casual Friday, eh?"

         Hester knew perfectly well that she was staring and she'd been raised to avoid such overt behaviour, but she felt compelled to do so. It was all so fascinating, so risque.

         "Not everyone is perky and perfect. I espy sagging and wrinkles, too. Do you suppose we could guess someone's age by the number of wrinkles encircling their trunks? And the veiny legs. Now I understand that old joke. Pull up your stockings. Do we look like something pulled from a wringer washer that we forgot to iron? Do we appear to be old?"

         Myrtle and George ignored the queries. They resided in a retirement home for seniors after all. Of course they were no longer spring chickens.

         Myrtle returned to her chaise lounge and her book. Not for the first time she thought of herself as one of the characters in her preferred historical tales partaking of the brisk sea air . George motioned for the return of his binoculars and Hester handed them over. She too settled once again upon her lounger with her latest knitting project. Both woman were lulled by the breaking waves and the distant squawks of seagulls. An occasional breeze caressed their skin.

         George stifled an expletive and jumped to his feet. Faint screams carried on the wind. The binoculars were weaving up and down, back and forth.

         "Tartar sauce! Now they've gone and done it. Look out! Get away! Run!"

         Myrtle dropped her novel and exclaimed, "What's happening, George?"

         "The nudies were playing a game of volleyball. You know, jumping, striking, a bit of flopping. One guy stepped back to swing at the ball and he started howling and shrieking. A cloud rose and surrounded him. He swatted and flapped his arms. Someone yelled bees . He stumbled towards the others and they were attacked, too. All that exposed skin doesn't stand a chance."

         With a bewildered expression he passed the binoculars to Myrtle and she focused on a frenzied scene.

         "I see people slapping each other silly. Those bees are merciless. Ouch! Some mighty tender parts are being stung. Hester. Pull your cell phone from your pocket and dial 911. No one over there carries a phone. Hurray. They're stumbling into the ocean. Someone needs to rescue all that skin."

         "It's a good thing they're nudists", quipped George.

         "Huh?" mumbled Myrtle and Hester at the same time.

         "Well, I got stung once and I couldn't bear to wear anything over the wound. They're comfortable not wearing any clothes. I don't imagine they will want to feel anything rubbing their stings. Let them be. They're gonna be sore, and bee-ching."

         The two women groaned. "Unbelievable!"          1075 words          National Nude Day and Don't Step On A Bee Day