Her toes curled through the chilling sand as the wave retreated, and she gazed at the ocean in silence. “Will this work?” She beckoned the white noise in a whisper, with her eyes closed and fists clenched tightly.
A voice bellowed back: “She is mine too!” Suddenly, heat radiated through her body, bringing with it a sense of peace.
With the confirmation she needed, a new day had now begun. Only the waves still remember her footprints in the sand.
About the Creator
Mrs. W
I have a daughter who is halfway through high school, I am a wife of more than 20 years and a high school English teacher. It is all about writing for me every day, whether it's getting my thoughts down on paper or grading those essays.
"Invisible Strength, Unheard Echoes."
In the spectral embrace of a moonless expanse, I materialized into being, an outcome of unbridled expressions casting aside their veils. The protracted symphony of an oversaturated abundance bowed to a sudden hush, painted with the monochromatic hues of solitude. Each moment – a silence of pleasure, detachment, and vocalized sorrow – orchestrated my creation. Picture this: a cool evening stripped of any warm glow, or a solitary drive into the encroaching darkness – these were the atmospheric stages where the zygote, the very seed of my existence, assertively manifested within my mother.
By Salman siddiquea day ago in Fiction
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