The Edge

Poppy, wrapped in a red blanket, fights through the raging storm that has taken her husband. In her shattered mind, she swallows every mouthful of Kai’s breakfast. Yesterday, they had argued across the

table as the sun rose; there was no rough kiss to span the distance. Now, with the search called off, the lifeboat turns invisible corners heading for warm fires and silent pints.

Poppy had stared into the log fire as hurricane winds battered down the chimney, until artificial sleep was pressed against her lips. She was guided to Kai’s side of the bed and traced fearful fingers along

the blanket’s folds until finally, they slipped over the edge. A stream of neighbours watched over her, quietly settling into a chair stripped of Kai’s shirts and jumpers.

Poppy drops into the hull of a tired old rib boat to resume the search.

She gazes at the smudged lights of the town as they blink into darkness. Closing her eyes, she dives into Kai’s skin, pushes between ribs, presses herself against his heart. Poppy is sure he is

alive.Seven hours wash over her until gold charges the morning’s silver chill. She pushes numb fingertips under her cheekbones, kneads the flesh, spreads the heat.

As she stands unsteadily to face another day, a shadow stretches across the boat; shivers run through Poppy like hurried goodbyes. Gathering the blanket around her, she stamps her bare feet against

the slimy wood of her boat. A wall of air pushes her to her knees; a lead-heavy rope slaps across her back. Seven hundred and sixty four pale and distant faces bob above her like party balloons. A thin

man’s amplified frustration booms  – grab hold of the rope, woman, for god’s sake, grab hold.

Jo Mortimer lives by the sea, writes stories, does some work, has a pretty nice time.