I have written about the ocean so many times. I would say that I’m running out of things to say about it, and maybe that’s true to an extent, but then I think about the feeling of seeing a humpback whale in the wild, or the way the riptide tries to drag you out to see, or the feeling of turning over a rock to find a crab underneath.
It’s not heard to understand why it’s a potent metaphor. And though it might be borderline cliche, we return to it time and time again, because there is still so much of it unexplored.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) From Greek παράλιος, for “coastal”
Someone who lives by the sea.
Talulla drags her finger through the waves, the memory of what it felt like to not have to fight the ocean’s pull fading. It’s been years since she last played in the surf, burdened now with little ones and house duties. How easily she used to slip between the waves, barking with laughter, at home in her skin. These days, it’s resentment that fills her, poisonous questions growing on her tongue. Does he know? Has he taken her skin? The stink of meat rolls in when the weather gets hot and Talulla can only stand it for so long.