I guess you would call our home a rockpool. The others did, and the shape was correct. But the name made me queasy.
Rockpools were such a big part of beach trips when I was younger. I loved peeking into tiny worlds crested with seaweed, looking for life inside. My favourite part was discovering a crab scrambling through the skin of the water. Where we lived all were scarlet red, their pincers ever poised for attack.
If you consider rockpools as scaled down versions of the ocean, then you cannot be surprised that the crabs got so big. Dragon sized to be specific. All of them clambering over the landscape, laying eggs the size of footballs.
We had to retreat to wherever still lay empty. I think my home was once a quarry. The slopes surrounding us are grey steps of rough granite. We have a prefab office to sleep in, where the hard hats still hang by the door. The others raided a warehouse enroute, but our bottled water supply is down to one crate. Once a day the crabs peer over the side. We throw rocks, and even the colossal once retreat. But they always return the next day. They always bring friends.
I remember the sense of power when looking over rockpools, Watching over like you are god. It was intoxicating. Something you do not want to lose.
