Laurel’s Bio:

Laurel was born in the tiny town of Presque Isle, Maine and has spent most of her life moving south towards warmer weather! Now a native of Dacula, Ga. (let's just say Atlanta), she resides in hectic tandem with her always-on-the-go 5yr old daughter, Lucie Marie. An avid photographer, reader and fan of story telling, Laurel has kept writing on the back burner for many years while working her two full time jobs as a Sales & Marketing Coordinator and a single mother. Recently a spark lit and took hold as she began writing her first YA novel, which she is now in the process of editing. Although telling stories has always been in her blood, this is the first contest she has entered. Laurel is excited to entertain the idea of writing as a serious quest, as well as creative outlet. She looks forward to writing more short fiction and finishing the novels stacking up in her head.

You can follow her on her new blog at: http://photogirllearnstowrite.blogspot.com/, send her tweets at http://twitter.com/Photogirl1968 or visit her photography at www.timecatcherphotos.com.

Home by the Sea

By Laurel Robertson

The incessant noise permeated my brain; a distant screaming, which I couldn’t quite place. I awoke from the recurring dream still bewildered and shaken, never able to recall what took place. It had been over two weeks since I had a good night’s rest. I was positive my sleep, or lack thereof, was starting to cause delusions.

It was much too cold for a June night I bemused as I pulled the covers tight. The clock flashed 3:30 AM, but I knew what it would say before I even looked. I awoke precisely at that same time every night now. Still undisturbed was the place in the bed next to mine. Carl, my husband of 13 years, was not there—again.

I dragged myself out of bed and down the hall, softly pushing the door open to my son’s room. He was fast asleep, curled up with his favorite stuffed bunny. Some kids had blankies, some sucked their thumb—Nathan had his beloved bunny, Mr. Walter. I wondered if he was getting too old, at 10, to sleep with stuffed animals, but the part of me not ready for him to grow up liked the fact that he, at least in that respect, wasn’t ready either. I smoothed the erratic mass of black curls out of his face. As I wiped the hair across his forehead, he stirred. His eyes never opened, but he murmured in his sleep, "I love you. Miss you." I wondered what he dreamt about and whom he missed? After covering him up, I kissed him on the forehead and retreated quietly.

The light crept under the door in front of Carl’s study. He was sprawled across the desk, his usual tidy blue shirt a wrinkled mess. His wire-rimmed glasses pushed up on his nose, sitting awry. Even asleep, he looked exhausted. My first instinct was to tell him to go to bed, but he always scolded me for "waking him up to go to sleep." I glanced at the contents on his desk, now crushed under the weight of his body. Photographs, some old, some new, scattered everywhere. I picked up a few and sifted through them, smiling at the memories—vacations, parties and assorted loved ones and pets.

A shiver ran down my spine and I couldn’t seem to shake the chill. I walked over to the French doors and tested them to make sure they were closed. Outside the window, the moon hung like a giant yellow orb, glowing in the onyx sky. Streaks of gold washed across the ocean, as frothy waves crashed upon the shore—our backyard—beautiful and haunting.

The front door opened and closed gently and I spun towards the desk to find Carl nowhere in sight. So lost in the view, I never heard him get up and leave. Without hesitation, I ran to the door to see where he was heading at this late hour.

Head hung low, he lumbered down the wildflower path to our private sanctuary at the side of the house and stopped under the solemn weeping willow overlooking the ocean—my favorite spot. He was carrying some kind of silver container, beautiful and ornate, sparkling in the moonlight. Swiftly, I made my way down the path behind him to get a better view. He knelt beside a large round stone, speaking softly. With great vacillation, he emptied the contents of the container, which swirled upon the ground and flowed towards the sea with the gentle breeze. "Carl," I called out to him and he glanced up, as if the night whispered to him. I walked closer and called out again, panic edging my voice. Tears streaked down his face in the moonlight.

Chilled through to my soul, I peered at the garden stone he knelt beside. All the air rushed from my chest as I gasped in disbelief. There, engraved in fancy script, was my name. “In Memory: Annabel Marie Stratton, loving wife and mother. We will miss you for eternity.”

There was but a brief moment of confusion—just before the intense vision occurred; the inevitable impact as the spinning car flashed in front of my eyes. My ears rang with the sound of screeching tires, crushing metal and shattering glass.

My solid form dissolved. Mimicking the ashes Carl had just scattered, I began swirling and drifting out towards the sea in a plume of mist.

Set free—finally.

 

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