Romy Morreo

I’m not often thankful to be a goat, but today is an exception. I descend the rugged cliff face with ease, dancing down a route of imperceptible footholds. I’m built for this. 

The harbour sits a short trot away from the foot, and I can see the familiar shape of the speedboat moored there. Its human owner visits this area with astonishing regularity, always taking a jaunt around the bay to eat at Birdie’s Café before returning to his vessel and roaring back off across the ocean. I’ve been watching. Today, my attention will pay off.

My herd has tried everything to dissuade me. The problem is we’re creatures of habit. We’ve made our comfortable home here, adapted to the wild terrain and unpredictability of the elements. When we move, it’s as a group. My friends and compatriots cannot fathom my desire to take such drastic action as a lone departure. 

That’s because not one of them has ever been in love.

I saw him, my Emlyn, for the first time two summers ago. Separated from his pod, he swam close to the banks, his coat glistening in the water. I’d never seen another creature so breathtakingly beautiful before, and found myself struck quite speechless. I began to frequent that particular area of the coastline, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, and I was giddy to discover that his pod seemed to have settled in for the season. When I eventually mustered enough courage to engage him in a conversation, he flirted outrageously and flicked me with seawater. I was enchanted. Ever since, I’ve been unable to catch sight of a seal without wondering if it’s him.

I head for the harbour, weaving effortlessly through the overgrown heather. My heart beats a furious rhythm inside my rib cage. Wait for me, Emlyn. 

There’s the empty speedboat, rocking along with the tide, secured to the mooring post with the same old rope. My teeth are ready to cut it loose. My hooves trip along the wooden walkway, the breeze a chill against my coat. I lower my head, take the rope into my mouth, and chew.

I must have misjudged the timing, because I’m barely on the final fibres when there’s movement in the corner of my eye. The human returning already? He’s picking his way into view. This was not part of the plan. I gnaw faster.

“Oi!” he yells, attempting a jog. “Ye cheeky shite! You’ll lose me my boat!”

Finally, the last strands of the stubborn rope give way, but not fast enough. Before I can get aboard, the human has his hands gripped around my horns. He tries to force me back off the walkway. 

“Crazy bastard,” he mutters, yanking my head in the direction of the island. “What’re they feedin’ the wildlife ‘round here, eh?”

While I can be described in many ways, ‘sensible in a jam’ is not one of them. The untethered boat begins to drift, and panic takes my reins. I bleat, stark and shrieking. I rear up on my hind legs, shake my head, thrash with every muscle in my body. I won’t be stopped from being with my Emlyn. 

The human shouts more unintelligible nonsense. His hold on my horns weakens, and I seize the moment, bucking like a buck possessed. 

It’s enough to free me. Before the human reasserts himself, I headbutt him in the chest with all the force I can muster. He staggers back, right off the edge of the walkway, and flails his way into the water with an undignified yelp.

I’ve never sought to harm anyone before, but as I stand victorious, breathing hard, surging with adrenaline, an unfamiliar sense of pride swells in my chest. I could be ten feet tall. 

I cannot bask in it for long. The boat drifts ever farther, and the human will rally. So, I run, and I leap. There’s a split second when I’m not sure I’ll make it, my stomach sickening at the prospect, but I should have more faith in myself: I land squarely across the seats. The boat rocks, wild and threatening. Together, we float away from the harbour. When I glance back toward the land, the human is in the process of heaving himself out of the water. 

It becomes immediately apparent that my sea legs are inadequate. I can’t find my balance, and I’m shaking, my stomach revolting against the constant motion. It also comes to my attention, quite belatedly, that I have no idea how to operate a speedboat. 

The controls on the boat are numerous, an array of buttons and levers decorated with symbols I couldn’t begin to interpret. The magnitude of this oversight is not lost on me. 

On the seat beside me, I imagine Emlyn. He’d laugh if he were here, wave his flippers, tell me not to stress. I suppose being so carefree comes from living a life in tune with the flows and currents. It’s one of the many things I adore about him.

I ram the controls with my front hooves, hoping I’ll hit the right one or combination. The temptation to cry out with frustration is overwhelming, until the motor stutters to life, the boat pushing forward with purpose and gathering speed.

Hallelujah!

Euphoric, I whoop with laughter. I’m coming to be with you, Emlyn. I’m coming.

Romy Morreo (she/they) completed her MA Creative Writing at the University of Chichester. Her short fiction has appeared in publications including NECKSNAP, Partially Shy, The Morgue, and The Bloomin’ Onion, among others. She also enjoys writing poetry, and her poems can be found in literary magazines including Moss Puppy, Rabbit’s Foot, Transients, and Venuus. She received an Honourable Mention for her poem ‘Intimacy’ in the Dark Poets Prize 2024. Her work often explores dark topics and queer themes. She lives in the UK.