A Trip to the Beach

This is something that popped into my head the other day and kept growing. No idea where it's going, or when the rowers might stop rowing... sorry.

Point is, here's a bit of randomness. Let me know if there's anything in here worth saving.

***

Sun streamed through the window, bathing the thick rug in warmth. It was tempting - oh so tempting - to go just stretch out and lay in it, let the summer soak into her fur. Irene sighed longingly, then turned her attention back to the laptop sitting on her desk, mocking her with blank green.

Green, so she could think about the ocean.

Blank, because her editor was STILL waiting for the next short story in the Trapped Heart series.

Irene stared at the screen, feeling the beginnings of a scowl forming on her lips in spite of her best efforts to the contrary. She knew what needed to happen, but forcing it last night had made the short feel so stiff she’d deleted it all first thing in the morning. What could she do? What did Ellen expect of her - a miracle every week?

Stifling a growl, she slapped her laptop closed and stuffed it in her bag. She needed a change of scene. A walk. A plate of fish. A nap in the sun. Anything to get her mind off this infuriating story.

~*~*~

The surf beat upon the rocks and sand, seeming to have no effect, and yet wearing away, wearing away, wearing away. Sand between her toes, wind in her fur, salt in her nose. Irene sneezed and shook her head until her ears flapped. It was wonderful to be outside. There was a lonely kind of feeling, though, on the grey, overcast beach with no one in sight for at least a mile to the north. If she looked south, there was a curve in the beach and it disappeared around a rocky outcropping - her imagination painted unseen families and tourists just out of sight. Why stop there? She erased the families with their children toting kites and balloons, and replaced them with a band of hungry vikings, bruised and cold and shipwrecked, trudging through the sand on weary paws.

That, unfortunately, had nothing to do with the story she was supposed to be writing. Irene sighed and rolled her eyes, then turned north again. Her laptop was heavy in her backpack, a constant reminder of the approaching deadline.

~*~*~

There was a face at the corner. Irene looked back, and the face vanished, but she was sure it had been there. A pale, hairless face. She’d only seen it out of the corner of her eye, but she’d been sure it was there, if only for a second or two. She stared at the vacant corner for a moment or two longer, tail twitching with agitation, and then turned her attention back to her laptop.

She didn’t want to think about pale faces with dark eyes. She didn’t want to distract herself from the story that was finally taking shape on the screen, even if the sand was cold under her legs and the wind was chill against her ears. Just a couple more paragraphs, and she’d be able to close up and head home for the rest. She was confident that if she could just - movement out of the corner of her eye distracted her again, and she looked up.

The face vanished, as before, but not as quickly this time. A flash of silver, a glimpse of a hand.

I’m being followed, Irene thought, and wished she hadn’t. Her picture was in Rival Digest every week - she was bound to be noticed sometimes. Recognized as “that one girl” or sometimes even “Miss Lovegood,” which was her penname.