This Must End

Humboldt looms out of the dark, with the plum box.

Here we are, says Humboldt. What are you writing?

The comb crested jacana's account of the journey, says Gaius.

In the SAND, with his finger! says Terence.

OUR journey? squeaks Pinky. O what does it say?

No one can see them, says Humboldt, reading from the middle.

I don't like it, says Kobo.

Sounds of rasping pebbles. The softening of pasta, reads Humboldt. Is that a thing one can hear?

A bird can, apparently, says Gaius.

Ageless cries out to the heavens. But the heavens are stony. I like that, says Humboldt. But there is more to the story.

Of course, says Gaius. The rescue. Continue.

I arrive. The waves have taken control of the plum box, all three are floating away.

Ageless too? asks Terence.

Even I, says Ageless, from the depths of the plum box. We are all three much chastened.

Speak for yourself, says Kobo. Pinky and I aren't much chastened.

I roll up my trousers, wade in and retrieve them. My trousers are wet in spite of the rolling. I expostulate, says Humboldt.

Understandable, says Gaius. What was the nature of the expostulation?

THIS MUST END! says Humboldt. And why are you writing in sand?

No pencils! says Gaius. Have you a better suggestion?

The tide's coming in, says Humboldt. Your work will be lost.

What a pity, says Kobo.

But she does not think it's a pity.

I know! says Terence. Take a photo!

Clever infant, says Humboldt. Gaius, take a photo.

Gaius writes the last sentence. THIS MUST END!

Stands up. Pulls his phone out.

Flash! Takes a photo.

.........

Back at the cabin.

At least I've recovered my pencils, says Gaius, drawing them out of the plum box.

Humboldt takes off his wet trousers, and drapes them over a chair.

There's a clothes line outside, says Gaius. Why not use it? They'll dry faster.

Humboldt tiptoes out with his wet trousers.

The camp site is quiet.

He gently pegs up the trousers, pulling the legs straight.

A postal van rumbles by.