North Shore

We were at Whitehaven train station and it was night; the last train north had long gone. We decided to walk along the beach between Whitehaven and Parton, which was longer than in real life. The shore was being used by some huge corporation for storage, and was covered in boxes and cylinders and crates and all sorts of packages. They were regularly laid out, in grids and rows. It was impossible to tell what all of these things were in the dark.

The tide was coming in, and the objects were half-submerged. We picked our way between them, aware of the approaching water.

“I wouldn’t have used the beach for storage,” I said. “Not after that huge storm the other night.”

At that moment, a house-sized cube wrapped in brown plastic was lifted free of the rocks by the sea.

It started drifting.


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