The view is sublime, sitting on her favorite chair. A wind swept shore, jagged rocks defiant to the weather and the waves. However, sometimes the curtains hide the window, mocking me. They know of my burden, to watch the white foam of the surf break. How I hold my breath for each wave as it rushes across the sand and then scurries back to its mother sea. Each timedaring to venture a little farther.

I do not swim, not with my porcelain white skin, my painted china blue eyes and raven human hair. Made in Paris by the best, my dress is the finest silk. My shoes real patent leather. I belonged to a little girl, a present for a daughter. Her name I cannot remember. It has been too long.

The wind whips and the sea churns, angry. The curtains remain open today. They sense my melancholy.

She had carried me with her, down to the rocks and the sand, but she left me on the shore. She had been scolded fortaking me, so precious and dainty, too close to the water’s edge. She instructed me to defend our castle while she went to fight the hungry sea monster. 

I did. The waves came in, gingerly touching the soles of my shoes, the hem of my dress, before rushing back out.

I watched for her with my china blue eyes, sunlight fading on my porcelain white skin.

The waves continue to return; she never did.

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DW Milton is a pen name. The author has a day job but would rather be writing fiction.