Other stories for this prompt

She laid there for an hour before moving. The waves had brought her here, and deigned not to take her away again. She had a reason to be here. Why? She rose to her feet, her eight legs working in concert, hydraulics hissing as she brought herself to her full height.

The stars burned into her eyes, their light searing their way into her memory. They were mesmerising, full of wonder, beautiful. She tore her gaze away, and looked at her surroundings. The beach expanded to the horizon. A man perched on a rock nearby. She looked at him. His...

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Thats all I saw. Waves, waves, waves.
Just little curves in the ocean, that broke down and collapsed into themselves.
I shiver, and take a tentative sip of the warm coffee he had given me. He shouldn't have come. But I let him; It had been so simple and easy.
The coffee's bitter taste makes me feel like I'm in the ocean itself, a wondrous part of the world that still remains unexplored.
I am that. I am unexplored.
I walk along the shoreline, divulging in the darkness of the sky and the silentness of the air. I think...

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The water crashes onto our feet. His hand lets go of mine as he turns away from me. He tells me he can't let me do this. I just shake his thoughts away. If you loved me you'd stay with me. I look at him and smile. He was really remarkable. I sweep away the hair that had fallen into his eyes. Our lips embrace for the last time. He tries to hold on to me but I push him away. I walk into the water as the waves takes me under.It's colder then I imagine. I can hear his...

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Waves. The sound was the first thing she noticed. She had to be somewhere near the ocean. She took a moment to register her immediate situation. Her right hand grasped a jutting piece of rock, and her left held tight to a thick branch that had somehow taken root in the cliff face. Her feet rested on a narrow ledge of rock that was no more than a few inches. She was thankful for her small feet, which her mother used to say were her best attribute.

She had to be at least 20 feet up. The ocean was too...

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Waves of black ink, striking against the porcelain-like skin of my hand. They twist around my fingers and across the back of my hand, turning and sweeping. I stare at the lines and swirls on my hand and try to remember. I try to think back to remember how they got there. I try to think of something, anything that might give me a clue to what it means but nothing comes. My classmates brush past my and I can feel their eyes boring into me. Yeah, I know it's weird but I'm sure it means something. It has to....

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It was there in the cold, I didn't beleive what I was seeing at first. I felt the chill that he must have felt, tasted the salt that he must have tasted and beneath my feet felt the soft caress of the sand as the rushing tide pulled the sand from under me.

It was a hat, that was all that was left soaked in brine and covered in seaweed.
I could picture him, pulling off his clothes with a cold determination on a warm summers day. In sight of noone he walked to the bin and buried them underneath...

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Waves lapped at her toes as she stood in the wet sand and looked across the sound to the island. A small plume of smoke rose from the chimney, hidden behind black spruce and birch trees.
She could see the canoe tied to the island's dock, rocking gently with the waves.
The image of the waves coming in both directions unearthed a memory or feeling she had kept buried for quite some time. Tim's waves had pushed in one direction and her's had surge in the opposite.
"What was in the middle. What pushed them apart," she wondered.
Now she...

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Waves. Waves lapping at the scarred coast line, the sound of gulls cooing above, the smell of the salty seawater.
The therapist had told her to imagine her happy place, every time she felt a panic attack coming on. Every time she felt stressed, which she was prone to, she came back here.
Her happy place.
She was nine years old, her strawberry blonde hair in pigtails, her jade green coat pulled tight to keep out the bitter wind. Balancing atop a weather warn log, she had pretended she was walking the tightrope at the circus.
She had always dreamt...

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It was easy to sit at the beach.

The sea could've been swirling around her toes, if she so wished, she could've been leaping up and jumping over the waves with gay abandon, giggling, squealing with delight as they tickled the hem of her skirt.

Or the sand could've been squelching between her toes, getting stuck in niggling places, to be found later on as she padded barefoot through the house (except that she wouldn't be barefoot, she'd be sandfoot - grains attaching themselves to her skin and not leaving for days - weeks? - on end).

Or she could...

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When I opened my eyes the image faded, something from a dream. The waves were pink, lapping against the beach and around my ankles. The pink was tinged with pale green, and the forms in the distance, all of them waist deep in the water were the last to delete from my waking memories.

I only remember one of the forms with clarity. One shoulder higher than the other, arms dangling at the sides, a feeble attempt to wave with the shorter arm.

There were tears in my eyes, and I ran my fingers through my hair, and I...

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About the prompt

Originally displayed on:
February 23, 2011


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