Come Here

The morning chill hung in the air as Charlie’s boots thumped against the weathered wood of the dock. As he approached the boat he saw dolphins. They chittered at him and turned away. Then they came back and did it again.

It looked like they were saying, “Come here. Follow us.”

“What is this,” he muttered, “an episode of Lassie.”

But instead of climbing into his fishing boat he jumped in the small speedboat and slowly moved away from the dock. The dolphins gathered in front of him and darted away. He followed. . . .

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “come here.”

Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “Come Here”

  1. Come here, he said.
    All sex and liqud eyes, muscles
    because bricklaying does that to a man.
    Come here, he said, and I did,
    came into those strong arms,
    those blue eyes, never thinking
    what the future held.
    Come here, I said,
    see your son, see our lives,
    twisted together
    like morning glories, blooming
    in the brightness of day,
    Come here, I said, and he did,
    never looking back.

  2. It was a harsh winter . That year it was particularly harsh . It rained almost every other day . Dry firewood was hard to come by . Mai used to stack ours by the door . She had a meticulous method . Large logs at the bottom , Thin twigs at the top , flanked by heavier branches for all – day cooking . Mai used to guard it jealously . To the novice , the heap seemed a hotch potch of firewood . But Mai knew exactly how many were there .

    How else do you explain the inexplicable wars she waged against aberrant neighbours , winning every time , with the culprit restocking her pile , under her supervision .

    Then there was the perpetually drying clothes . Babies clothes were pilfered or worse , burnt as kindling . Woollen leggings were favoured as they burnt easily , like dry paper or hay . In those scarce times , woollens were hard to come by and Mai had kept a strict lookout for them as she sat rolling chapatis or boiling tea by the wood-fire.

    Once she saw the neighbour’s son throw in a black coloured woollen scarf , and got up mid -roti. That was not a good sign . She grabbed a stick from her pile , walked quietly to the neighbour’s fire , fished the smouldering scarf out , beat out the wisps of flames against the cold hard floor , looked at the culprit in the eye , and said “Come Here.”

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