On the beach

Contorted into a frown, the moon rose high above the summer beach.
A lone hound, prowling the sands, sniffed out crabs settling on the fine grains as the tide flowed away once more. He caught one deftly by the canines and held it up to the moonlight, it’s snapping pincers dancing just out of range of the dog’s sensitive nose.
With a snap of the finger and a crack of a chemical reaction, a round was projected, streaking into the raised head of the animal and sending it sprawling.
And what a shot! It may have been a still night, but the visibility was not great. This marksman was working with shadows and experience. He was an excellent shot.
The crab crawled back towards the sea. From his craning eyes he saw only unfathomable distances of sand, the crashing sea and the mighty mountains of the dunes. Somewhere in that morass a sniper lurked, but a crab could not be expected to care.
The sniper however, kept guard of the beach. His lookout was constant. Nothing would safely pass his sights.
Between the morning hours of three and five, just one more animal crossed the beach. That animal was the elusive fox and it was worth taking down.
The fox’s name was Joshua, and he was so dubbed by the name chiselled carefully onto the round that eventually ended up in his side. The rifleman had so inscribed each of his rounds, in order to baptise his quarry with a funereal title after each golden shot; a blast and a name to help them gain swift access to the kingdom of the dead.
Ah, but the fox! The fox turned to face the dunes; to face the rifle that lined him in his sights. And, strangely, the shot skimmed the creature’s snout and ploughed deep into its midriff.
The fox, it shook and rolled - blood spilling onto the yellow sand, making a sad mockery of the light green colouration of the smiling seaweed.
Seeing the unkind accident, the hunter now stirred and gave away his position for the first time. The creature was barking and writhing in agony. What an idiotic thing to let happen. Why does boredom make fools of the idle?
The young man in the dunes considered the beach for a moment. He looked up and down its long lengths for signs of life. There was nothing moving in the dark. He even looked out to sea, in case some watching eyes might have spied his ignominy. But, all was clear.
So the young man clambered up from beneath the cool sand covering that made safe his position and hunched forward, low to the dunes, moving towards the site of the wounded fox.
Undulating and moving beneath his feet, the strange young man stalked the sand slowly to the edge of the beach. Here the moonlight passed from cloud cover and lit up the scene once more.
In view: a sad, wretched little creature, an animal, pawing at the ground, kicking trails of sand towards oblivion. The man gave one quick glance about him and pulled a pistol from his pants. Cocking the trigger, he pointed the barrel at the fox’s head and squeezed slowly. He did not miss.
From somewhere in the channel, a cruising gunboat spotted the moonlight reflecting on the weapon of the sniper. Seconds later, a shell was delivered with great accuracy to the point of this reflection. On contact with the ground the sand was lifted many metres in the air and flung about the old golf course that lay behind the sand dunes, as if some old duffer had played a rather poor bunker shot.
The body of the sniper would be found the next day, lain daintily upon a larger dune; prostrate, like a king shot by an archer upon his castle walls.
The body of the fox somehow remained, untouched. An impact crater lay not a foot from its motionless body.
In the morning, a small boy would find the perfectly auburn body of the fox and pronounce the day of his find, the most special, the most unforgettable ever in his short life.
Later, he would find the charred remains of a sniper upon his favourite dune. He would hardly be able to contain himself.