Rising Tide 1: What Makes You Wait? - EDITED y. 2022

By: FantasyIssue


"What makes you wait for me?" he asked, staring into the water. It was the dead of night and silence filled the humid summer air of the south end. He sat on the dock, watching the water lap at the supporting pillars but not quite reaching the flat of the wood. He could not see into the darkness of the water. Light was scarce, save for the moon. But he knew, in the intuition he held on this shoreline, that she was just beneath the surface of the blackness of the water. He could feel it in his weathered bones, the brisk of awareness prickling the back of his neck. His leathered hands flexed, nervous fingers twitching at his sides.

She held her breathe, looking up at him from under the soft lullaby of the water. With the cloak of the night, water offering its refuge to her, he was still able to look directly at her. Their eyes connected and she wanted to scream at him, to order him away from the depths of her soul. She wanted to pull him into the water and keep him under. She wanted to hit him. A lifetime away and there he stood, gray and old, searching for her again.

He sat on the dock, removing his leather boots to sit beside him, bending his knees over the edge so that his feet entered the darkness of the water. His bones settled to the worn out places of his body, pulling and falling to places that now ached. It had been a long time since he had been to the dock, looking out into the night water of the ocean before him. It had been so long that the smell of the salt water made him thirsty and the feeling of the wooden dock pressing into the denim of his pants against his skin irritated him. He was worn out and tired. Exhausted beyond any fisherman pulling to dock after months away from home.

Her anger bubbled up inside of her. She could feel it from one end to the other end. Her finger tips tingled with the desire to strangle him. Her throat clenched as she held down the screech bubbling to the surface of her throat. Her body shook with the rage that filled her, soft ripples disturbing the peace of the water around her. If possible, she imagined that her eyes glowed red with fire. A fire and rage that was so unnatural to her species. It consumed her entire being for the longest moments of her life, staring at his large figure sitting on the dock as if they were children again.

"I don't know how, but I know you're there," he laughed, splashing the night water with his foot. The ripples of the surface fell just above her head and she involuntarily swam closer to the surface. As much anger that boiled in her veins, she just wanted to be closer to him. The ripples that spread through the water were so inviting and she just wanted to touch it. To feel his touch in the night water and have it sooth the rough edges of her foreign rage.

Her fingertip broke through surface, soaking in the ripple of his touch. The anger inside of her started to subside as she took him in, feeling him through the night water. The closest they ever were in decades. A lifetime of distance disrupted with a ripple.

He saw the delicate tips of her fingers come into the moonlight and he sighed, letting the breath he had been holding out like a forceful storm wind. Somehow, even in the darkness of the night, her fingers reflected the moonlight. The pale pointed tips of her fingers, the round sharpness of her fingernails, hadn't changed in the forty years since he had last seen her. He wondered if she had aged at all. Do people of the ocean age? He could not remember if she ever told him, or if with age and life he had forgotten.

She emerged from the water. First it was her fingertips, followed by the softness of her palm and the delicateness of her wrist. The top of her head broke through the water and the rush of the night air sent chills through her spine. Her wet hair felt heavy as she came out of the water, her eyes just breaking through enough for her to adjust to the moon's light. With just her hand and head, pointed chin barely breaking the water's horizon, in view, she knew how haunting she looked. She stared at him, sitting there in worn out clothes and a coat that looked heavy and warm. Her eyes narrowed as they met his, saying all of the profane curses she wanted to spew at him.

"What makes you wait for me?" he asked again.

She continued to emerge up to her shoulders, eyes glowing and connected to his. There, she floated in the water, both a figment of his imagination and the proof of history no one would believe. Not an hour older than the last time he had seen her, the youthfulness of her skin glowed, somehow, brighter than the moon. He felt his heart jump into this throat and the tight knots of his stomach churning. He was suddenly, irrevocably, terrified. The water rippled around her shoulders and illuminated the rage she emitted from her place in the water. Just meters away, he felt that he could both reach his hand to touch her or drown in the attempt.

"Patience."


It's been almost 10 years since I stopped writing fiction. I'm trying it out again in hopes of resurfacing from the humdrum of adulthood with some semblance of passion or willingness to be interested.

I'm playing with the pace of the words in this piece. Let me know if you're feeling the rhythm of it or suggest other fun ways for me to write! I'm not quite done with this story but also have no idea what direction it will take so who knows! We might get a few more follow up chapters or I might just leave it here. Patience.