In response to Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt.
Lost Island – #writephoto
A first the waves moved, playfully, over his ankles.
Then they became more insistent, as his body resisted their pressure. “No,” his body spoke for him. “This can’t be happening!”
He strode deeper into the sea that had turned on him, tightening the muscles of his thighs and buttocks as he fought against the waves that engulfed; the currents that bore, the warm liquid of love turned purposeful and resistant…
And then he was swimming, taking sobbing breaths to reach her, drowning out there, somewhere… “Help me!” he screamed at the sky, wet with his frothing, salty spit and the drenching of the high waves that forced him back, relentless, denyers of habitual will. Something bigger, his mind moaned, coming face to face with the reality of depths he had never envisaged in the shallows.
And then there was no horizon, as even the vision of her was taken away by the rising waves, whose single song was, “Back, back…”
At the end of it all he lay, sobbing and half covered with wet sand, as the last of the waves left him, unharmed if broken, stripped of elegance, of will, of might; leaving only his given right to be, which contrast would have been a thought of great depth, had he not been so angry.
But strength was gone, and so useless sobbing was the only vent by which the outraged lava of emotion reached the surface of his wet skin on the wet sand on the wet beach.
And the soft breeze blew and caressed his skin, but he did not know it.
And then he saw it on the horizon – his horizon. The dark line of the rising distant island at the limit of watered vision. And with an implacability that froze his soul and made what he had been shiver, he realised that he was, forever, overdressed for where she had gone…