She loved the sea-things the best: the sponges, the shells, the seaweed. She kept them on a little table where she could always see them.
But they were sad things too. The sponges were dry. The seaweed was brittle. The shells were hollow as promises.
How she hated promises. How she hated her life. A deep, roiling hate, a storm-hate, a tide-hate.
She was lured from her home, from her sisters singing in the deep, from the crashing waves, by the promises of the land.
Night after night, she lay cursing the legs she traded her world for.
Word Count: 98
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Sandra Cook for providing the prompt photo!