Saturday afternoons for Edward meant taking his boat out to the island. He had bought this small piece of land as a wedding present for his wife 15 years ago.
‘We can come here on the weekends. I can work on my book and haven’t you always aspired to paint?’, he had said.
Sheryl had hated the island the minute she laid eyes on it.
‘You think inspiration lies here? In this dreary dull place? And please get a decent job. You will never be a writer, let alone a published one.’
With that, she never visited the island with him again. Edward still made his trips there on the weekends. This Saturday was even more special he thought as his boat bobbed near the sand bank. He proof read his manuscript one last time, and mailed it off under his pseudonym, like he had been doing for the last 10 years, as an accomplished writer.
Word Count 154
This post was written as part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers hosted by Priceless Joy. Many thanks to Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode for the photo prompt.
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