Here's an excerpt from a work-in-progress that I worked on while at the Gloucester Writers Center–it is a novella partly inspired by the surroundings and atmosphere in Gloucester. -Shahar Bram
Kids’ laughter came from a distance, the joyous sound of children at play. Their voices rolled through the house like waves, washing his thoughts away. For a second these unfamiliar voices confused him but then he recalled Anna had mentioned something about old Mr. Green's house, with the faded yellow planked fence that anyone going up the road could see was blasted, which was rented at last. She told him about new residents, but he couldn't recall her mentioning any kids. Now he could only remember his elderly good-hearted neighbor smiling when she said whatever she said, which made her look child-like and even tinier than she already was. Anna was a lively and very clever woman, and he suddenly thought that when she said whatever she said she was amused; thinking about it now, he suspected she was enjoying something she kept to herself.
With the photograph in his hand he made his way to the porch. The water in the cove was calm and the little canoes didn't move at all. There was no wind, the ocean was crystal clear but cries and laughter stirred the air. His gaze glided along the narrow pier until he saw the figures of two kids standing on top of the small wall. The water glittered and the sunbeams danced on their bodies as he watched them patiently: they were getting ready to jump.
He was scared for a second; it was an instinct he couldn’t control, an unrestrained tendency to imagine himself in the place of others. But it lasted only for a moment after which he made fun of himself: and what if it were I, he thought, what'swrong with jumping in the water? A quick swim, it is not too cold for a swim yet, surly not for kids…
SPLASH. The kids jumped together in the cove and the sound of their bodies hitting the still water rolled in the air like galloping horses rising out of the sea. He recoiled unintentionally and the photograph fell from his quailing hand; before he had a chance to do anything it went flying over the banister, swinging slowly like a maple leaf that hadfinished its short colorful cycle and was nowworn out, resembling a yellowish wrinkled paper. He bent over and reached: the photograph was lingering in the air with swaying movements, too far and too late to catch. He wanted to grab it so he turned around quickly but then suddenly a seagull almost hit him, diving down from the rooftop, down like a shooting star, the bird crossed his course, spread her big wings, snapped the photograph in her beak and took off again. In a few seconds the seagull was flying, free as only a bird could be, heading towards Anna's purple porch.
The photograph!
His agitated voice followed the seagull, with its white wings and dark markings, but unlike the bird who took off again, his voice sank slowly into the silence that took over the cove and the small street. The big bird flew away, holding the black and white photograph; the markings on her wings glittered in the sun like deep purple letters. He remained stone-frozen, watching the sparkling, long wings, trying to read the signs. The bird made her way towards Anna's house, taking away his photograph.