For NF, or C, or S. ILY.
Isaac was a fisherman’s son, red hair and freckles and a strong build all the town’s girls swooned over, but more so he was a simple boy, thought simple things, and enjoyed simple days at the shoreline three or so miles from port. Here the rocks were roughest and the waves crashed in with white peaks and foam eddies around the tallest dark spires.
“Day’s lovely, ain’t it?” he asked Wanda one morning, dawn cresting over the distant sea, the sky painted in pink and vermilion.
“Always, Isaac, when you say it is,” she answered. Wanda had been and would always be his closest friend, he’d decided some time ago as he adored her for her bravery, always precariously perched upon the black rocks, lower half perpetually covered in sea foam as the waves crashed and her amber hair blew around her pale face in the sea breeze.
“I could say the sky’s dark on a Sunday and you’d still agree,” Isaac said with a smile as Wanda turned momentarily westward to meet his eyes from where he sat on a small outcropping of sand where the waves barely made it.
“Perhaps,” she said, smiling equally. The wind caught a tuft of her hair and draped it over her eyes; a delicate hand brushed it aside and Isaac merely watched peacefully.
“A storm’s coming,” she crowed over the thunderous water and they both silently acknowledged the darkening horizon. In his mind he imagined small sparks of lightning flitting beneath the distant clouds, dark squalls of seagulls chased away and the fish restless for days to come, his father grumbling at the broken fish lines and his mother cleaning with everlasting fury until his passion subsided.
“Think it’ll be as bad as last time?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she said softly, “if not seven times worse.”
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