One Last Wave
A magical realism short story — an outtake from a collection
Another wave came crashing in, filling the morning blue of the sky with sparkling light. The immense face of the god it carved into the cliffside watched it roll back.
“I can’t believe this is natural,” Jessa said, watching from the distance, her bare feet caressed by the shallow water of the beach. “I mean, it really is a face! Someone must have carved it, and the ocean just kept working on that, for eons. But it must be the work of human hands.”
“Or maybe it’s just pareidolia,” Al said, frowning playfully. “Seeing faces into clouds, tree trunks, coffee stains, anything. Why would this be different? Random chance may very well have created life on Earth. Why not a giant face in the rock?”
“Because… wait, from here it looks like my neighbor!” Jessa said, tilting her head. “Good heavens, this is old, old Mr. Bluntman!”
“What?” Al said. “Come on, let me see!”
“You think I’m joking?” Jessa said, taking a step to the left and pulling Al to where she stood a second ago. “Here, go on, take a look! Look! It’s him, old grumpy but sweet Mr. Bluntman!”
She lifted her finger to point — only to realize that from this new spot the giant head in the cliffside looked, miraculously, just like her own.
“Impossible,” she whispered, gripping Al’s arm so tight her fingers went chalk white. “I’m going mad!”
The world started spinning, and then it went dark. She fell forward, unconscious, straight into the soft, warm sand. The tiniest wave lapped her face.
When she came to, the first thing she saw was the endless water, bathed in calm, morning sunlight.
The second thing she noticed were two tiny figures. One of them was lying in the sand. A woman, somehow too small to see right, yet familiar. The other one was a man, kneeling next to the woman, trying to wake her up. He was familiar as well. Too familiar.
And behind them, in the pale blue distance, there was the third thing — a third figure, tiny like the other two, watching the events. Jessa couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was smiling. And she knew who he was.
It was Mr. Bluntman.
Mr. Bluntman lifted his hand, and waved. Not to the other two. Not to Al or to the woman who couldn’t have been anyone else but Jessa. They couldn’t and didn’t see him.
He waved to the giant head that the softly roaring ocean carved into the immense cliffside.
He was waving goodbye.
Jessa watched him turn around, and disappear.
