Edith/Maddie here, (wistfully) remembering her vacation in Maine a month ago.
Wickeds and readers, add your opening line for this picture I snapped one foggy morning in Owl’s Head.
Jessie: She’d heard tales of the menacing, suffocating fog that slithered up from the sea like a live thing but she’d dismissed it as something the locals dreamt up to scare off people from away. Seeing it undulating towards her lonely cottage reminded her that they also claimed the fog ushered in the weeping ghost of a woman who had become disoriented when no landmarks were to be seen and had died of exposure only yards from her own home.
Edith/Maddie: You can rent the little writer’s cottage, she told me. It’ll be perfect, she said. What she didn’t tell me was about the life-sucking fog, or that the inlet floods and cuts off access to to the road. Worse, that a creepy guy camps in the woods and spies on me day and light. I hope I get out of here alive.
Barb: During low tide, we walked to and from the island. At high tide we took the boat. Walk to town in the morning, the boat’s not there when you need it to cross in the afternoon. Take the boat over in the afternoon, it’s marooned on the sand when you return after dinner. By the time we had been there a month, we were so in sync with the movement of the tides, it was like they were the rhythms of our own bodies.
Sherry: Every night she went and sawed into the beams that held the house up, knowing soon enough it would collapse just like their relationship had.
Readers: We love it when you add your opening lines.