By Michael Owen
A wave crashes against the shore.
Irma and I sit transfixed, our gaze held by the sea. We sit on top of the sea-wall; the sky is overcast.
Irma turns to me to speak: “I don’t think…”
Another wave crashes against the shore.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I don’t think we are working,” she says, looking straight ahead.
I reach over and put my hand on her bony knuckles. She pulls away and my hand falls onto the pebbles beneath; they’re cold and hard.
A wave crashes against the shore as Irma leaves, salt water hitting the sea-wall and my cheeks.
Like a mined diamond, crafted and cut into a fine beautiful stone.
Love the way you’ve used waves crashing to provide a strong sensory backdrop to your story. Nice work!
Again, this is a good lead-in or a moment of grace for a short story, or even the crux of a novel.
So sad Michael. You’ve done an excellent job setting the scene. I can see them sitting there. Well done.