Horizon

My take on a beautiful image in a contest entry

Chapter One: Waiting Tide



The sun bled into the sea, orange and furious, streaking the sky with the kind of colors you could taste if you squinted hard enough. Noah used to believe sunsets were magic—proof that somewhere, the world made sense. Now, at seventeen, he clung to that myth more than ever.

Tonight, the beach was empty. Even the stray dogs had wandered up to the road, preferring scraps to saltwater. Noah’s bare feet dug trenches in the cool, damp sand as he carried his battered wooden kayak to the edge of the surf. The bow left a wavering trail behind him, a long, imperfect line.

Noah paused and sat, letting the kayak rest beside him. The tide was coming in slow, soaking his jeans as he watched the horizon morph. Across the water, a jagged line of dark land floated—a place he’d never dared to visit, but which haunted his dreams. Most nights, he stared at that silhouette and wondered how much of his life could change if he simply pointed his boat toward it and paddled until he could no longer see home.

Home. A battered shack above the flood line, its windows cracked, its tin roof patched with tarps and hope. Inside: his mother, moving in rhythms dictated by worry and wear. Beside her, his sister June, five years old and just beginning to notice the world’s cruelties. Noah loved them both—the kind of love that felt tight and desperate in his chest, the kind you could drown in.

He thought of Dad, too—except with memories of shouted arguments trailing off into silence, and old photographs turned away on the bookshelf. Dad had vanished at sunset, three years ago to the day. No note, no explanation, just a half-drunk cup of tea and a pair of muddy boots left by the door. That was the moment Noah learned that sunsets could mean endings just as much as beginnings.

Tonight was different. Tonight, Noah wasn’t just watching the sun set; he was poised for escape. His kayak was more scar than vessel—patched with duct tape, sharpie graffiti, and secrets. Stashed inside: a loaf of bread, a thermos of weak tea, a photograph of his family, and the key to the house he wasn’t sure he’d ever use again.

A gull screeched overhead, circling once before plunging into a wave. Noah gripped the boat’s edge, feeling splinters dig into his palm. He looked back—one last time—at the charcoal outline of his home. The window in the kitchen glowed, yellow and warm. June’s shadow flickered behind the gauzy curtain.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to leave. He wanted to find his father, demand answers, yell and curse and then, maybe, forgive. But more than anything, he wanted to know if he could shape his destiny instead of having it battered and bent by wind and water.

Noah stood, hauling the kayak into the foam-tipped surf. He let the water lap at his ankles, then his knees. The sun’s last light caught the blade of his paddle, setting it ablaze. He pushed off, settling into the cockpit as the tide lifted him.

The current tugged him forward—toward the bruised horizon, the waiting island, the secrets kept by the sea. As the world behind him faded into night, Noah fixed his gaze on the fiery horizon and paddled forward, each stroke a promise thin as hope and strong as longing.

Somewhere ahead, his story waited. And tonight, he’d let the tide carry him to meet it.