What happened to George
Giles Turnbull George felt enthralled and invigorated by the fresh sea air. In the darkness, he could hear his dog snuffling in some grass on the nearby dune. Gulping in gusts of sea breeze, George stepped down the dune's seaward face towards the waves. Behind him, on the land side, he left his cares and his worries. Here, despite all the pressures that life could throw at him, George felt some kind of peace. He crouched, and dug his hand into the sand. His fingertips touched cooler, damper grains which he lifted to the surface, letting them reflect the dim cloudlight as they trickled through his knuckles and back to the ground. Standing again, he called to his dog and walked further along the beach. It was a delightful evening. Thick clouds bustled across the sky, in turns blotting out and revealing a nearly full moon. The wind, although cool, felt deliciously refreshing and strangely warming. George took great, big, heaving breaths of it and reveled in this almost unknown (to him) feeling of timelessness and relaxation. George's blissed-out mood perhaps explained why he didn't see the light in the sky. Swooping down towards him from a point just below, and to one side, of the moon, and partially obscured by the clouds, a point of white light moved swiftly towards the beach. It wasn't flying, or floating, so much as - incoming. It arrived very swiftly, growing to a murky blob the size of TV set. | |
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