by Sophie Playle
It was a Saturday when she found the sock behind the sofa. She remembered always telling him off when he came running in, hyperactive from his adventures on the beach and jabbering about collecting crabs in buckets and poking beached jellyfish with driftwood – he’d always fling off his socks in the living room, eager to escape the damp sand that tormented his feet. She remembered when she set his dinner on the table, but he didn’t come home for it. Time stood still, yet the sun set too fast as she ran across the beach calling his name, until she was sobbing in time with the waves, alone in the dark. She became a shell; her husband left her. And now, sitting on the floor with the sandy sock in her hands, she lost herself in a tidal wave of guilt.
Sophie Playle is a graduate of the UEA with a BA in English Lit with Creative Writing. She's trying to crack the publishing industry, but it's proving to be pretty bullet-proof. In the meantime, she stays at home writing, reading and blogging.