Aislin crawled into bed and cuddled around Gershwin the stuffed toad. Soft cotton enveloped her; however, the sheets smelled like last weeks visitor or was that her imagination. Rain dripped from pine needles at her window. It was a night for salt. She could feel sobs undulating toward her shores.
It hadn't been a particularly bad day; truthfully, it'd been a good day. The boss was happy and her writing professor was bubbling with the highest praise for latest piece. She was leaving in the morning for a city adventure. Yet all she wanted to do was cry.
Maybe it was the writing. In the past week she'd had to write about the worst moments of her life - confronting malevolent ghosts along with her protagonist. Sending intimate writing out into the world was overwhelming but she'd done it before. Was there anything different this time?
Aislin wanted something to blame this saddness on - some part of her week: the bizzare phone call from lover-past, illness sucking her breath, mother calling her back to forgotten farmlands, recollections of a broken night of shattered virginity, a rejection she promised she wouldn't feel, or reminders of bleak days of insanity and loss.
Whatever the force, it was bending her double. Sobs purged her already empty stomach, sending her scrambling for sink, toilet, trashcan.
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