The Collector’s Wife

My husband crouches at a rock-pool high on the shore. Spume-laced water laps my feet. If he notices before Ten, I’ll go back.
I wade into the blue-green-gray. I’m waist deep.
Two, three.
He sits up; examines whatever he’s captured.
I’m up to my chest. My skin tingles, thickens.
Five, six, seven.
My bones crack, shift, re-form into something sleeker. Sea-salt rimes my eyelashes.
He stands, pockets his prize.
My heart stops beating. I duck my head, shake rainbow-droplets. I’m not cold anymore.
‘Cathy?’ His voice, thin as a seagull screech.
Too late. I’m free.

This story was shortlisted in the July monthly micro fiction competition.

About the author:

Jackie Morris is focussed on flash and short form fiction. She has a story in the NFFD Anthology 2022