As deadlines approach for papers and submissions at Kingston University MA program a certain frenetic energy takes hold of us and changes simple words into stories that capture imaginations. This is the right time to take a breather and check out other people’s ideas and realisations.
This week on Words, Pauses, Noises, we have a new author, ReBecca Compton, and her short story ‘Black Ocean’. This first person narrative seeks to explore the hidden, true nature within her characters, as well as every one of us. Come join us for a while as we drift in the waves of discovery.
‘Black Ocean’ by ReBecca Compton
There he was with his friends and that woman, the one who never stopped touching him. Though it didn’t matter what she did, he never truly fell for her.
Not like he would for me.
I heard the clicking of my heels across the wood of the patio as I made my way to the drinks. I wrapped my hand slowly around the cup next to his.
“Hello.” I said it smooth and slow.
He met my eyes last. “I’m-I’m Brian.” He stuck his hand out. I smiled. Touch was key, and now he was asking to do the work for me.
My hand wrapped around his. “I’m Alix.” I ran my fingers down his palm as I released his hand, watched his pupils dilate. “I’m visiting from out of town. Tell me, if there’s one thing I need to see before I leave, what would that be?” I traced my finger along the rim of the glass and sucked off the salt.
“Oh that’s easy.” He pointed away from the party. “You need to see the ocean at dusk.”
I laughed melodically. “How perfect. Will you take me?” I cocked my head and looked up at him. “I’ve never seen the ocean before, and I don’t want to go by myself.”
He swallowed and nodded. We walked toward the exit of the patio. As we passed the other woman, his arm settled around my shoulder. I smiled at her.
We made our way down the stairs and into the sand. A few steps and I said, “Wait, let me…” as I slipped my shoes off. My arm went around his waist, and I lifted his shirt to tuck a few fingers into the band of his pants. I felt him shiver slightly. I couldn’t blame him; my pheromones were powerful.
I stopped us just before we got to the water. I twisted my body slowly to face him, put my arms around his neck, and pressed my hips firmly to his.
He wasn’t ready yet.
“You were right. There’s nothing quite like it,” I whispered in his ear. I bit my lip and stared at his mouth.
There it was; he was ready.
“Brian, let’s go swimming.”
He looked at me like this was a game. “I don’t have my swim trunks.”
I smiled and looked at him through my eyelashes while I unzipped the back of my dress. I let it pool around my ankles. “I forgot mine too.”
His breath left him in a woosh, and eventually he looked into my eyes, oblivious to how soon that fire would extinguish. He pulled his shirt off asI unbuttoned his pants. He dropped his boxers, and I took his hand pulling him toward the water. He picked me up, lacing his fingers under me as I wrapped my legs around his waist.
The water rose. Almost there…
I squeezed him with my arms and legs and watched over his shoulder as the cliffs seemed to bob with each step. My breath caught as the cool water touched my skin. My senses heightened, and I could feel his every breath, every heartbeat.
“Close your eyes.” My voice flowed like the waves against the scales beginning to appear. The water was around his neck as I untangled myself from to free my legs. I knew my eyes were the silver they turned whenever I made contact with the ocean, since now I could see the ebb of his blood pushing its way through his body.
“Brian, do you love me?”
My influence had subdued him just like it had with so many men before him, and he succumbed.
“Yes. I love you,” he whispered, eyes closed.
I smiled and felt my teeth sharpen into fangs, and I heard my sisters’ eerie screeches encouraging me from the depths. But he’d stopped hearing everyone else with his first step in the water.
I’d never needed air, but I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I grabbed his arm just above the elbow and pulled him under into the black ocean.
The art of writing doesn’t go far without its craft – editing. It’s a slow, winding, and often painful process until you shape that rough gem of the idea into something pleasing for others to look at. As with all things, writing takes practice, and with every story we write and share, we learn more about ourselves and our art. Why not share a piece of your own? Check out our submission guidelines.
We hope you enjoyed Rebecca’s story as much as we did. Join us again next week for another installment of Words, Pauses Noises.