Photo credit: Peter Brantley
I watched Ixaro pray at low tide, ankle-deep in wet sand, leathery hands shaking.
“Xinxoni, bring back my Araka. Give me a sign.”
Her shack, faded gray by sun and salt, overflowed with such signs. Shells, skulls, driftwood.
“You never know which are magic. One might lure him home.”
That night, something was lured from the waters. Pale and slippery, walking on two legs, dragging a tail.
Ixaro ran toward it, laughing, despite my cries.
It was not Araka. Never had been.
Afterward, I tossed her collection into the sea, laid the shelves bare.
You never know which are magic.
Word count: 100. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge. Thanks go to our tireless hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. See below for the original photo prompt, and click here to read the other stories.
Photo © Claire Fuller