Lifting my head from work to feel the breeze that found my window, salt-edged, I can taste the horizon. It feels like paddling, the gentle sting of blood in the clear cold of the sea, hair tangled in my face, in the wind, blinding me as I turn to see the whisper of someone, somewhere, that I thought I knew. Once upon a time… Words in the sand, words in the wind, time lets them both slip away and I am left with a promise to the dead: I will remember, til I become sand and blood and salt and the tide washes me home. So I turn again, try to brush the wind and hair from my face, and the call is children’s laughter, mine, my sister’s, telling that joke about seeing the sea. I can almost see how it let the hours wash over us, happy, fading. The sun outside the window catches, for just a breath, the glass of the clock, sets it aflame: the sea is calling.
About the Author: Sarah Bewick is a seventeen-year-old fantasy writer living in the south of England, obsessed with storytelling since childhood. Her favourite tales are so far cloak and dagger secrets, but she hopes to one day publish them. She is studying hard for the grades to get into her top university, but she really only wants to finish her books.