Short Fiction Fiction 1 min
To the Islands
The waves are as hard and grey and wild as the granite hugging King George Sound. Not a good day for boating, but you insisted.
Michaelmas and Breaksea Islands loom ahead, the swell groaning beneath us like a warning.
We don't turn back.
Behind us lies the jetty we jumped off, the pontoon we swam to, the cove where I couldn't say I love you.
Have we sailed far enough? I wish I knew. I wish a lot of things.
I cut the engine, reach for you. My words catch on the wind with the ash I throw like confetti.