Footprints

She walked down the dusty road, arm swinging, fingers linked with another’s, like tangled roots burrowed in the earth. Golden sunlight pierced through the grey clouds above, warding off any remnants of the earlier storm. A stiff breeze blew wisps of hair from her neck, its greedy hands pulling at her skirt. Fresh air spun through her nose, clearing her thoughts. The hand holding hers squeezed gently.

...

Laughter echoed along the shore, mingling with the crash of waves. Footprints lay embedded in the sand, some already swept away into the river, while others stood firm against the rolling tide. Seagulls cried as they raced over the tumultuous water, while high above, an osprey circled, its beady eyes trained just below the surface for fish.

She had climbed up onto a large trunk of driftwood, her bare feet meeting the smooth log, bark worn away from months of wandering along the river. Below her, he stood, a grin plastered on his face as he stared up at her. His hands came to rest on either side of her feet. She grinned back.

Stepping over his hands, her arms flew out, providing meager balance as she padded along the driftwood. His hand followed her path, running along the length of the log. She stopped near the end, rough wind pulling at her clothes. It tugged on his curls, blowing them back against his forehead. A hand reached up to grab at her ankle but she had jumped into the sand and bounded up the bluffs before he could blink.

Their laughter continued to echo long after they’d left the beach.

...

A hammock swung between two tall trees, grass tickling its underside. The leaves chatted away on their branches, while out in the field, cows huddled together, their noses sniffing in the grass. Nearby sat a small cottage. Someone was shucking corn on the steps.

Wrapped in the embrace of the hammock, her back was pressed up against his. A book rested on her stomach, held in his hands. Every once in a while the page would turn, words parading slowly from his mouth, in no rush to finish the story.

As he read, she traced his fingers and arms lightly, forming invisible paths to invisible places. He pressed his lips into her hair, chuckling, the locks smothering the sound. Eventually the shucking stopped, the sky grew dark, and the cows moved off to find a warmer place to sleep. The hammock didn’t stop swinging.

...

Tears marred the bedspread, salty polka dots tiptoeing around her hunched form. An upturned book lay by the pillows, the spine cracked beyond repair, cover peeling. Harsh wind blew through the open window, slashing at the pale curtains.

Legs hanging from the bed, her socks dug into the soft carpet, trying to find purchase where her emotions could not. Her hands over her eyes had become buckets full of holes, not able to withstand the streams that cascaded over her cheekbones.

A soft rap sounded against the door to the room, a voice murmuring words of comfort through the thin barrier. When she gave no answer, the voice departed, leaving her to her sorrow. Tremors shook her body, like a single leaf shivering, clinging to its branch in the final days of autumn. The wind was unrelenting in its howling, yet her quiet tears pierced the storm. The polka dots continued to cover the bed, spreading like zebra mussels in the river, while the candle on the nightstand flickered.

Yet despite the wind, the flame persisted, its glow dancing across the walls.

...

He stepped onto the porch, a peace treaty of bread in his hands. She approached him, her feet barely leaving the ground, her hands behind her back. The screen door inched closed behind her, as if trying to hide its presence. For a moment, they simply stared, bright eyes connecting with dark ones.

When their anger was finally released, it was a force of nature. Hers was a tornado plowing through wheat fields, destroying the year’s harvest. His was a raging mass of currents, pulling fish and turtles into its destructive path. The two met, crashing together in a thousand words that were left simmering under the surface. The outcome was not pretty, until— “I’m sorry.”

She stopped, the crops forgotten. His currents now ran in rivulets down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, too.”

She held out her hands.

...

Two sets of hooves stamped against the ground, hidden by the meadow’s tall grasses. The two of them sat upon the horses’ backs, side by side. As they crested the hill, orange sunlight graced their faces, pleasant even in the late, summer evening. Birds flew overhead, relishing the final hurrah of warmth.

She looked over at him, his smile matching hers. Adjusting her hold on the reins, she reached over, a bridge extending over a chasm. His hand closed the gap. They sat there together, the wind in the underbrush and the swish of the horses’ tails the only sound to interrupt their peace.

The meadow basked in their contentment. The island sighed in their glory.

...

Feet halted on the dusty road. She could no longer feel the hand holding hers. She could no longer feel the press of its warmth, or the ridges of the lines that marked its skin. Her hand, now empty, floated in an open void.

Her breath stuttered and her eyes slid shut, arms coming to wrap around her torso. The void began to close in, like her body was being encased in heavy snow. Her mind rooted around for a memory, something, anything, to ground her. Something to ward off the feeling of nothing. A breath, in the suffocation.

She could feel the sand under her feet as his steps followed her.

She could feel the curls between her fingers.

She could smell the fresh air lingering in his shirt.

She could feel the crust of the bread his hands had baked, butter falling from the knife as they laughed in her kitchen.

Her empty hand found purchase.

Hannah Peebles (she/her) is a third-year Creative Writing student at OCAD University. Hannah is often found out in the snow, playing soccer or cooking up an elaborate magical world for her 32nd unfinished fantasy novel, and will read anything with dragons in it. Hannah has previously been featured in Pulse, and has five of her works featured in separate Canadian Polar Expressions Short Story contest collections. Sláinte!