My 2026 Dickseski Fiction Prize Winning Submission

"What the Tide Brings In" by Sabrina Harvill

The early morning sun glowed hopefully on the tail end of dusk, golden rays demanding their turn to adorn the sky as I paddled out further into the flat ocean before me. I’d risen early this morning, or rather, had given up on the feat of sleeping all together when the clock struck 5:00am. My brain refused to rest despite the exhaustion that had my body in a chokehold, so I’d decided to take my paddleboard out into the sapphire-blue Atlantic Ocean that lay just a few blocks from my apartment. The water was calm in the pale light of dawn and beckoned me to join it while the world was still quiet. I’d paddled out with little thought to the action, my limbs performing the movements they’d done many times before. I hardly noticed the taste of salt on my tongue this time as my thoughts consumed me like fire on wood. 

He’d done it last night. What I knew would eventually come, and what always did inevitably. He’d had enough of my brokenness. We stood outside of my apartment after what I now know was a sympathy dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant. The rain had begun to lightly fall, as was common for our Virginia summers, and my eyelashes were heavy with the mist it cast. A lone, dark curl fell sopping wet onto his forehead as he turned toward me with troubled eyes. I’d seen those eyes in others before. Regretful, but resigned. I knew what he would say almost immediately when he sighed deeply, raindrops trailing down his full lips like tears. My body started to flush, but not from the intense summer heat that licked at my skin; instead, anxiety lit a fire in my blood that spread with no mercy.

“Marla there’s…something we need to talk about,” he said softly.

Yes. This was it. The same ending that every love story always had, and always would. I thought by the fourth time around I’d be used to it, but it still stung now, even before he’d gotten the words out. I nodded solemnly, knowing what would come next. I didn’t fight it. I gave him the space to speak because, as much as this crushed me every single time, I couldn't deny that I understood. I wouldn't be able to deal with me either. I took a deep breath and thanked the sky for the rain so he wouldn't see my tears. 

“Sure. What is it?” I asked feigning ignorance. 

He looked at me uncertainly, no doubt wondering what my reaction would be to his next words. “Look, Marla, I love being with you, but…I don’t think I can be what you need me to be. I know the OCD isn't your fault. It’s just…” He trailed off, struggling to find the words that would offend me as little as possible.

I spared him the discomfort. “It’s just more than you can handle?” I asked quietly, with sadness and understanding lacing my voice.

He looked at me with surprise, not expecting that response. “I- Well- Yes. Yes, that's it. I’m so sorry Marla. I just don’t think I can do this. I can’t understand you in the way that you need me too.”

I nodded again, a sorrowful smile plastered on my mist-covered face. I wouldn't blame him, wouldn’t sob in his arms or beg for him to change his mind. Deep down, past all the hurt, I knew he was right. How could anyone handle a person like this, when I couldn't even handle myself? OCD was a demon. It was an unrelenting beast, a force to be absolutely reckoned with. It was something that not even I could tame. I shouldn’t have expected him to be able to. I looked up into his pleading eyes, my own devoid of anything but numbness. 

“It’s ok,” I said sincerely. “I understand. For what it’s worth, I’m glad we had the time that we did.” 

I pulled my house keys from the pocket of my jean shorts and turned toward the door, the big, gold number seven decal gleaming in the rain. Lucky number seven. Or so I had thought when I’d first moved in. I’d been thrilled to get apartment number seven. It was my OCD’s favorite number, ensuring luck and safety when I did anything in sets of seven. I felt his hand at my elbow as I turned the key, and I turned to meet his confused eyes.

“That’s it?” He asked with surprise. “You’re not mad?” 

His mouth was agape and his eyebrows scrunched into an expression of pure confusion. I put my hand gently on his own, which still grasped my elbow. 

I signed heavily in the misty rain and said, “No. I’m not mad, Sam. I understand. But it makes it easier for me if we just leave it here, ok? If we leave it at this.” 

The taste of the alfredo I’d had at dinner still lingered in my mouth as I said the words, and I knew I’d never be able to eat it again. He stood there utterly still for a long moment, before his hand dropped from my arm as he nodded slowly. 

“I- Ok. I’m sorry Marla. And I wish you the best.”

He kissed my cheek before turning to walk away, not looking over his shoulder as he did. I turned around to open my door, the lucky number seven decal winking at me in the fading light of the evening. Once inside, I turned the lock back and forth seven times to make sure my door was perfectly safe, then fell onto my plush beige couch, sobs racking my chest and my soaking wet clothes still clinging to my trembling body. 

My hands shook slightly at the memory of last night, and I stopped paddling once I was about a quarter mile from shore. My arms burned from how hard I’d worked them. At least it made me feel something other than sorrow for a moment. I laid on my board stomach-down, tucking my paddle under my left arm and against my body. The coolness of the metal was a balm to my skin under the scorching summer sun. I let my hands hang over the sides of the board and into the ocean, reveling in the silkiness of the water. It smelled like salt, my banana scented sunscreen, and the metallic air of a rainstorm a few miles in the distance. Most days, this was the only thing that could bring me even an ounce of relief. There were no number sevens out here. There weren’t any steps to count, any doors to lock, or any handles that I had to wash my hands after touching. I closed my eyes and let myself drift with the tide, my back baking in the sun. I’m not sure how much time passed, though it felt like at least an hour or so, when I heard a shriek of laughter nearby. I jolted up to see that I’d drifted in about half way toward the shore. A small girl was splashing in the water, no older than maybe 4. She had a delighted, triumphant smile on her face as she stomped in the saltwater and seafoam. Her parents stood nearby in the sand, clapping as if she’d just done something amazing. They looked so proud of her that it made the back of my eyes prick with tears. I couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at my lips as I gathered my paddle and stood back up slowly. The smell of rain was growing stronger and moody gray clouds were moving swiftly towards me, so I began the paddle back to shore. Once there, I collected my board and trudged out of the shallow water and onto the golden yellow sand riddled with seashells and smooth stone pebbles. The little girl was still playing at the shoreline only ten feet or so away from me, her parents nearly bursting at the seams with pride. As the water crawled its way up the coast toward the girl, she reached down to pick something up from the water. She held a broken scallop seashell in her hand. It was light orange with little bumps on it from dead barnacles. The edges were chipped and an entire jagged chunk was missing from the top left edge. She shrieked again with satisfaction, and her parents clapped like she’d just gotten into Harvard. My brows furrowed at the display, and her parents caught my confused eyes for a moment as I subconsciously stopped in my tracks to stare at the shell. They giggled to each other and smiled at me sheepishly. I looked away for a moment, embarrassed that I’d been so blatantly nosey, before I returned to their gazes with flushed cheeks.

“Sorry,” I said, with my own sheepish grin. “I’d heard her laughing earlier and couldn't help myself from seeing what she’d found in the water. It’s…certainly a pretty color.” I tried to sound authentic, but confusion was thick in my voice. 

Her parents smiled with knowingness, her mother throwing her head back with a hearty laugh. 

She winked at me before saying, “Yes, you’re right about that. I’m sure what you’re really wondering is why she’s so happy to find a broken shell, and why we’re clapping like she’s just discovered a new planet?” 

My cheeks flushed again, and I began to hope that I’d gotten enough sun on my face for it to not be too noticeable. I nodded, chagrined, and said, “Well..Yes, I was sort of wondering that.” 

Her mother smiled at me again and said, “We’ve tried to teach her that even the broken shells are worth collecting too. We turned into a game, and now she searches for them. She throws the perfect ones back in just to find broken ones instead.”

I blinked at her, not expecting this response at all. I stammered my reply. “I- Oh. That’s interesting.”

Her mother smirked at me, seeing right through my attempt to sound understanding.

 She saved me from my awkwardness and said, “We do it because we want her to know that ‘perfect’ doesn't mean unbroken. It doesn't mean normal, and it doesn't mean you have to go out searching for perfection. We want her to find joy, not in what she searches for under the guise of perfection, but simply in what the tide brings in.” 

I stared at her for a moment, not knowing how to respond. I looked at the drastically broken shell in the little girl’s hand, her blue eyes glittering as she looked at it with reverence. She was delighted in that broken shell. In a shell that people have probably picked up and tossed back out to sea dozens of times over. In a shell that no one would have looked at twice or chosen to keep after seeing how broken it was. She loved that it was broken. My eyes flitted back to her mother. She looked at me with something of mutual understanding in her expression. I felt naked under her gaze, like she saw past my face and into my soul for just a moment. She looked back towards her daughter and her expression softened further. 

She kept looking at her daughter as she said, “That’s how we all deserve to feel about ourselves. Like our brokenness is more perfect than we think.”

The little girl finally noticed me then, her bleach blonde hair trailing over her shoulders as she turned to fully face me. She held her shell up toward me with pure pride etched into her tiny features. 

“Look!” She said excitedly. “Issa perfect sheshell!”

I grinned at her jumbled words and her innocent enthusiasm. “It’s beautiful,” I said softly. “You really did find the perfect seashell.” 

Her eyes gleamed at my praise and her face lit with a toothy grin. All at once, her expression fell as she looked at my hands. 

“You don't have a sheshell!” She exclaimed with disapproval. Then, she ran toward me on little legs, splashing in the water as it pulsed around her feet rhythmically. She came up to me intently and held her hand out with the broken shell in it. 

“Here,” she said determinedly. I blinked at her, which is all I could seem to do today, before coming to my senses and dropping the paddle in my right hand into the sand. I held my hand out to hers, not quit closing the distance, and asked, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take your perfect seashell from you.” 

She jutted her hand out further, looking somewhat annoyed by my sentiment, and huffed out, “You need a sheshell.” 

I felt my throat closing as emotion threatened to take over my senses. I reached out and clasped the seashell in my hand as it fell away from hers. It felt cool in my hand as the textured ridges that decorated it grazed my fingertips. I looked down at the little girl and smiled.

“Thank you,” I said with a quivering voice. It was taking everything in me not to cry. This little girl, who had no idea of the pains this world held, found perfection in little broken treasures like these. Maybe, just maybe, someone else could find perfection in my brokenness too; and maybe I could learn to accept what the tide brings in too.