Seaside Gothic

Fiction | Poetry | Nonfiction

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Whitby

Whitby by Madeline Byrne

Anne walks alone through the maw of the cemetery. Each headstone is a jutting grey tooth, its face licked clean by a ravenous sea wind. Her hair escapes her bonnet in tendrils, threads of copper chestnut that ripple upward, like her head is on fire. She’s brightest where her mane meets the horizon. Red on blue. Blood and water.

At the edge of the field, where the ground slopes and the church’s shadow lay far behind her, Anne finds the grave she’s looking for. The cross of driftwood is not new, but it looks so among the stones. Like a supple skinned maiden among craggy faced men.

It was not the reunion she had imagined.

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