January 7th – She read aloud to the sounds of crashing waves
She read aloud to the sounds of crashing waves.
The waves, being (for their part), inanimate objects, and temporal at best, were unmoved.
Obviously, they moved as waves, because that’s what waves do: they move in waves, rather than actually wave, which would be odd. But they lacked any kind of emotional response to Emily’s reading, which seemed to surprise no-one but her.
Emily Canute had history.
A family history, going all the way back, even though the links were suspect at best. She had no claim to a throne, anyway: that could be easily established, although she did have a lovely armchair that was a few generations older than her, if not from the time of the famous (and famously ancestral) Cnut.
It was ironic, really, that the story of her illustrious ancestor’s attempt to turn back the sea was, at best, apocryphal, and, at worst, a not-so-subtle attempt to discredit the wise Norwegian and ridicule him when set against his more normally Norman royal cuckoos. Ironic, because while Cnut almost certainly never even considered commanding the sea to do anything, Emily Canute read aloud to it as often as she could.
And she didn’t care who heard. As long as the sea heard, that was the main thing.
Emily found it difficult to explain exactly why she had this compulsion to read to the sea, but it was there, and it had always been there, for as long as she could remember. It didn’t matter what she read; she was happy just sitting by the shore, on the shingle, reading aloud. Romances, histories, plays, poetry, biography and autobiography were all the same: it was all about the words that she gave to the sea.
It will probably come as no surprise, at this juncture, for the reader to discover that Emily was single. She’d had a couple of short romances, relationships even, mostly inland. That sea thing always seemed to get in the way of anything more serious.
But Emily didn’t mind. She had the sea.
Inspired by a prompt from here