The sea surged against the rocks, pummeling cliffs into cascades of stone and dust. Wind whipped against the villagers’ skins as they pulled themselves onto the roofs, watching streets become rivers and rivers become oceans, murky water flooding the low ground. Cries rang out over the hard drumming of rain against earth and the wolf howls of the storm.
Little Tabitha perched on the roof’s edge, fingers running through puddles on the terra-cotta tiles, soaked strands of black hair stuck to her brow. She looked at the white crests and brown waves beneath.
There were shadows in the waters. All around the dim of the storm rang out, but Tabitha could not take her eyes away from them.
A woman’s face rose from the swell. Her eyes were shimmering saltwater, her a hair a tumbling waterfall. She raised a finger to her lips and then vanished into the swell.
Tabitha’s mother pulled her back from the edge.
The winds died and the sea crept away like a wounded lion, leaving destruction in its wake. The storm had done its worst and the village yet stood.
And in the very heart of the devastation, Tabitha had seen something beautiful.
For Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo is thanks to A Mixed Bag.