Nine Days, and Seven Tears
By JL Merrow
“You don’t get seals on the Isle of Wight, Briony Brain-dead.”
The sea had taken on the grey of the skies, and the briny air that buffeted my face was chill with the promise of winter. The seafront was deserted; only a dog walker heading towards the cliffs, an elderly couple in the distance, and me. And now, my annoying little brother, Col.
“It was probably a rock,” he went on. “A big, fat, rock.” Col punctuated his words with wide-armed gestures, and when he’d finally shut up, he blew out his cheeks.
I pretended to yawn. Maybe I wasn’t a stick insect with a pair of melons for boobs, like the girls in the porno vids he thought nobody knew he watched on his phone, but so bloody what?
Maybe I’d skip pudding tonight, though. Well, depending on wha
