“A Stroll”
by Natalie Nee
A wave stretches for my feet. Yawning tentacles of foam sizzle around my toes donned with chipped red polish. Sand holes bubble underneath, popping like champagne against my arch; excavating my footprint before there’s no longer a trace of my existence. Sputters of sunlight splinter over the horizon. A lone sea piper scampers behind me, dancing a jig between hither and fro, pitter pattering to the rhythm of my pleading heart. I wade further and the goosebumps climb higher, mist peppering my thighs. The pain ironically ceases. Water tugs at my sweater, nipping my waist like a pack of hungry wolves circling its prey. The dry cotton recedes, now heavy with salt. A breeze flutters past, caressing my wet cheeks with whispers of goodbye. Distantly, my son asks how I’m feeling about the new hospice nurses. Worry etches every syllable. I turn from my balcony and pat his cheek, planting a kiss on his forehead like the days when he would skin his knee. I tell him I’ll feel better after a stroll on the beach.
Natalie Nee is a novelist, former ghostwriter, and latte enthusiast. Her work has appeared in Across the Margin (Best of Across The Margin, 2023), Roi Fainéant Press, Tiny Wren Lit, The Hooghly Review, and more. Her story was recently shortlisted for Fractured Literary’s 2024 Micro Prize. She’s cooler on Twitter (@novelnatalie).
by Natalie Nee
A wave stretches for my feet. Yawning tentacles of foam sizzle around my toes donned with chipped red polish. Sand holes bubble underneath, popping like champagne against my arch; excavating my footprint before there’s no longer a trace of my existence. Sputters of sunlight splinter over the horizon. A lone sea piper scampers behind me, dancing a jig between hither and fro, pitter pattering to the rhythm of my pleading heart. I wade further and the goosebumps climb higher, mist peppering my thighs. The pain ironically ceases. Water tugs at my sweater, nipping my waist like a pack of hungry wolves circling its prey. The dry cotton recedes, now heavy with salt. A breeze flutters past, caressing my wet cheeks with whispers of goodbye. Distantly, my son asks how I’m feeling about the new hospice nurses. Worry etches every syllable. I turn from my balcony and pat his cheek, planting a kiss on his forehead like the days when he would skin his knee. I tell him I’ll feel better after a stroll on the beach.
Natalie Nee is a novelist, former ghostwriter, and latte enthusiast. Her work has appeared in Across the Margin (Best of Across The Margin, 2023), Roi Fainéant Press, Tiny Wren Lit, The Hooghly Review, and more. Her story was recently shortlisted for Fractured Literary’s 2024 Micro Prize. She’s cooler on Twitter (@novelnatalie).