Henry Frigon lives in California with his daughter who is nearly one year old. He writes short fiction, poetry, and prose.
The Crab
Crab sat atop a rock on the misty moon-lit beach and click-clack, clickity-clack’d a little song to himself. The waves washed ashore bringing with them great green seaweed clumps and shells which were worn smooth by the rolling of the sea. Crab’s rock was under a grand pier which was home to many restaurants, game stands, carousels, binoculars which cost a coin to use, and one great Ferris wheel, covered with and lit by multi-colored lights. But Crab, who sat on his damp rock, only saw the lights of the festivities reflected in shallow pools in the sand. He gazed at the reflections, and the light of the full moon emerged from behind a puff of wispy mist and pooled around him.
A glistening shape, somersaulting on the sea-breeze currents, and reflecting the silver moonlight, landed with a thud some four feet away from Crab. He skittered over to it, leaving small tracks in the pillowy sand. A silver coin, polished by many excited hands, lay face up in the shining moonlight. Crab grasped it tightly in his claw and scuttled back to his rock. He held it up to the moon and gazed at it, for never had he been so interested in such a small thing. He tilted his claw so the coin lay on its side and let it roll down the smooth surface of his rock. So delighted was he by the way it glided from his stoney seat into the soft sand that he crawled to it and repeated the motions. Three times he rolled it, and three times he retrieved it. The barnacles who clung to the pier’s posts like shavings of iron on a magnet wondered what he was doing. The lights from the festival above glimmered in the sea, and caught his eye. Crab left his rocky perch and crawled up a cement path, coin in claw.
When he reached the sun-bleached and salt-weathered slats of the boardwalk, he stopped, dazed, at the sight of the people. He checked to make sure the coin was still in his claw and began the trek to the end of the pier.
Many times he was nearly crushed by the giant stomping feet of tourists and party goers. Carnival music blasted his shell as he skittered between feet and trash cans, the smell of fried foods bombarding him. He came at last to a restaurant, The Mariner’s Grill, whose sign featured a crab holding a spy glass. Two warm brown hands picked Crab up from behind and turned him around.
A little girl, maybe 6 years old, with dark eyes and a wide toothy grin, smiled with delight as she eyed Crab up and down. “Olá, Caranguejo senhor,” she giggled. “Posso ajudá-lo?”
Click-clack, clickity-clack Crab snapped, pointing his empty claw at one of the binocular stands, and showing the girl the coin in his other claw.
“Sim!” she exclaimed, and together they dashed to the binoculars. The girl opened her hand. Crab gingerly placed the coin in her palm. She rubbed her thumb over it for good luck, and pushed it into the coin contraption. The binoculars unlocked themselves and she looked through to make sure they worked. She pointed them at the full moon and stared at it lovingly. “Eu amo a lua. O que você quer ver, senhor Caranguejo?” He pointed with his claw at the small beach-side village, the houses filled with happy families and warm hearths. The girl pointed the binoculars toward the houses and held Crab up to them. He drank in the sight of the town and was content.