Jan 7th – She read aloud to the sound of crashing waves

January 7th – She read aloud to the sounds of crashing waves

18.36-18.46

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

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Shores – Dead Deer

Shores

The rain falls hard on the cold city streets. Hunched they briskly move on, hands deep in coat pockets, the collars turned up against the wind. They walk with purpose. Half-jogging across a red man, they soon fall back into step. It is early, but the street lights are on already, it is dark and cold. Lights blare out of the shops on the main drag, they duck into an alley; it is darker here. He knows the way. A short-cut, past the backs of the shops, bins and rats, the entrances of cheap flats. Turning and twisting they emerge by the river. It is a narrow, unimposing and unnavigable river, hardly appropriate for a capital city. But in a land-locked country you take any body of water you can find.

They follow it for a while before crossing the bridge away from the old town. It is clear they have a destination and know it well.

“We’ll need to stop and pick some things up;” the taller of the two half-mumbled, leading the way. No key, just a knock and the door was opened. Up four flights and they are there. The shorter of the two didn’t see exactly what stuff he was collecting, but he could tell he didn’t like the look of it. With barely a word spoken they were out again on the street , and walking hard again against the rain and the wind once more. Wondering what the hell was going to happen, whilst looking up at this nervy, worrying man, listening hard.

He turned his face to the left and down slightly, “We’ll need this stuff when we reach the shores.”, almost hissing the words. His bony face did have an almost snake-like quality.

“But, we are thousands of miles from the sea. We are land-locked. What shores?”

“Thanks very much,” the taller man replied pushing open the door of a pub, “I’ll have a pint.”

 

Today I wrote from 09:55 to 10:05. I was prompted by idea “A distant shore was all that remainedhere. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

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