This story was chosen as a finalist for 500 Words 2025/26.
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The Shore She'd Dream Of by Grace L.
When Clara was seven, the world was the size of her small coastal town and the stretch of beach that hugged it like a secret. Every morning in summer, she'd run barefoot through the moist grass, dragging a faded towel twice her size, chasing the sunrise as if it might disappear before she reached the sand.
The beach was her kingdom. The waves, her soldiers; the seashells, her treasure; the wind, her song. She'd build castles that leaned like sleepy giants and imagine herself living in one, watching the tides carry stories from faraway lands. Her mother often called her back early, worried about sunburns and chores, but Clara's heart stayed behind with the sea. At night, when the walls of her small room pressed close, she'd close her eyes and whisper, One day, I'll live by the ocean forever. I'll wake up with sand on my feet and salt in my hair.
Years rolled in swiftly, and childhood slipped away quietly. In high school, Clara traded her seashells for textbooks and her towel for a backpack. She studied late into the night, the crash of imaginary waves fading under the hum of fluorescent lights. She told herself dreams were for children, that real life demanded more than sunlight and sea breeze. But the ocean never really let her go. Sometimes, walking home after class, she'd catch the faint scent of salt in the air-though she lived miles inland-and feel that same ache in her chest.
By twenty-seven, Clara worked in a grey building filled with grey desks under grey skies. Her job paid well, her apartment was clean, and her days were steady. But each morning she'd glance out her window at the crowded streets below and feel a hollow kind of calm. One rainy evening, while sorting through old boxes, she found a seashell-small, white, chipped at the edge. She held it to her ear, listening like she used to, and for the first time in years, she heard the waves again. The next morning, Clara quit her job. She packed her things, sold what she didn't need, and drove until the horizon turned blue.
Now, at thirty-two, Clara lives in a small cottage by the sea. Her mornings begin with coffee on the porch, toes buried in the sand, watching the sun spill gold over the waves. Children laugh nearby, building castles like she once did. Sometimes they wave to her, and she waves back, smiling. She writes stories for a living-tales of tides and dreams that never fade-and fills her shelves with shells collected after each storm. When the wind sweeps through her open windows, carrying the salt and sound of the sea, she thinks of the little girl she used to be and whispers, "We made it."
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How the Sloth became slow
By Cosima H
