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Weekly Contest #342
The night his daughter died, the fisherman couldn’t let go of her hand. A hand that was impossibly small, with nails like pearl drops. A hand that only a few days prior, he’d dipped in glimmering gold paint and pressed against his new dinghy’s hull. He looked at the faded, cracked paint now, and if he squinted, he could just make out a ghost of a handprint lingering at the edge of the word Angeline. At least, that’s what he told himself as he slowly ambled into his boat. The wood groaned under his weight, the perpetual puddle of muddy water ...
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