Like Oceans

If gratitude was an ocean, I’d have poured myself upon her. To see her float in my waves, drown in my eyes as I did hers, hang weightless for all eternity in swirls of aquamarine, a price worth paying, I think.

We met by the ocean; it seemed perfect symmetry it ending there, too. I wrapped her in a warm embrace, took a breath and waded into the waves. She soon quietened, her screams lost to the breakers, then depths, then deep.

At the end, just before the darkness took us, she smiled. I hoped she’d forgiven me, blessed us both in her way. Then again, she might just have been glad to be rid. I couldn’t blame her, I was.

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50 Word Stories: Babylon

She leant over a verdant balcony, her hair longer than the vines which climbed the city walls. Raven, she was, dark of eye and silken locks. I desired her, who wouldn’t? Yet this was Babylon, the Euphrates beckoned a sailor to the sea. The girl would wait, but adventure wouldn’t.

50 Word Stories: Shipwrecked

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The storm tossed us around like straw in a meadow. Violent gusts of wind tore the ship apart and hurled me unnoticed into the spewing waves. I screamed, but nobody heard. It wasn’t the ocean that killed me. It was my mind. I believed myself shipwrecked, but it argued lost.

The Held Breath

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Golden light filtered through the aquamarine water casting opaque, rippling shadows across the seabed like clouds in a clear blue sky. The sun’s rays were never the same, always beautiful, a living, moving tapestry that rolled across the coral and kelp in endless cycles of underwater perfection. Turtles dove for it, sharks hunted for it, yet she of the periwinkle skin and lavender eyes wanted nothing more than escape. That’s what she told them when they caught her in their net, hauled her into the light, although all they heard was mindless bubbling. Dreams aren’t always worth a held breath.

50 Word Stories: Not For Gold


50 Word Stories: Not For Gold

They offered gold. In shoals of aquamarine mystique, the Mermaids swam towards the moonlit, shipwrecked many in their little, wooden boats. They wouldn’t breach the surface preferring the comforts of liquidity to the surface storm. Refusing their gold was easy, (too heavy) refusing them, the hardest thing we ever did.