The Taciturn Beachcomber

“Why’d you freak out in the first place?” he asked.

“I looked down, saw the sand between my toes.”


“The sand, grains of sand. They used to be one thing, got eroded into another; they wore away all their useless bits. I was full of useless bits, like a cross patch kid with no signature on the ass.”

“Ah…a cross patch kid?”

“What my daughter called Cabbage Patch kids when they started causing stampedes. My wife climbed a stack of shelves like a monkey to get a red-haired girl with pigtails, to match our Emma.”

“So you knew you were lost because you stepped in sand and lacked a Xavier Robert’s tattoo on your butt cheek?”


“Not the typical start to an existential crisis, you must admit.”


“So how did you finally rid yourself of your useless bits?”


“Wait, what?”

“Figured out there are no useless bits.”

Categories: Fiction | Tags: , | 1 Comment

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One thought on “The Taciturn Beachcomber

  1. E.W. Storch


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