She sold seashells by the seashore.Once.
Now mementos for my fingertips, boxed and sorted
each telling a story.
I remember her windblown hair.
I recall the sand between my toes.
I remember seagulls high above, a stranded jellyfish.
“I will return”, she said. Her hand was sand.
Promises are dust, I’ve waited with her echoes.
Blind I sort my dreams, despair and hope, like bones.
And then one day a call from her.
“I’m waiting by the beach, I’m widowed, come”.
I burn mementos. Leave, and travel far away from sea.
My heart can carry dreams but not deceit.
This picture first inspired me to write a serial killer story, but I decide against more corpses, and opted for melancholy instead. I guess this is a narrative poem of sorts, just experimenting a bit with expressions… I will be around later, I’m very busy at work for the moment.
Friday Fictioneers is a community writing 100 word flashfiction for the same image. Rochelle leads and encourages every week… Join the fun.
October 19, 2016