She sits on the beach under a moon as round and white as a rolled-back eye. A door
opens, releasing a blast of jazz and a man in a tuxedo. He crumps down and rakes the sand. He stops. Holds something up. Must be a shell for he tips it to his ear.
His breathing slows. He drops the shell and skiffs into the water. Music swings on. Garden lights wink. Bowtie floats free. Screams slash the air. Feet charge in – froth, churn, yells, what the hells – snatches about an illness terrible and terminal. They drag him to shore and pump his heart.
She sighs. If only they’d heard his clench of breath, an intake of resolve before he submerged.
In the morning she’ll return and pick up a shell, pick up lots of shells, till she finds the
one. And she’ll tip it to her ear and listen.
Sharon's stories and flashes have been published on-line and in magazines, including Ellipsis Zine, Reflex Fiction and Janus Lit. Her dream is to have a writing shed so she can potter and procrastinate in total peace. She tweets as SharonBoyle50
This story was shortlisted in the June 24 Monthly Micro Competition.