Little Cottage (Five sentences)

Her crying. Her crying is all I can hear as the wind smashes on the door and attacks every window; they put up a meek, indifferent defence while the typhoon pushes its way into every centimetre of the little wooden shed, lying in pain in the middle of all of which is my wife, who grasps my hand so tightly that it becomes numb.

“It's going to be ok, really, it is,” I mumble frantically to her, but it is hard to infuse meaning into such words when we've been here for so very long, doing this same thing for hours and hours as the destruction outside has been rising, rising, to its harrowing, shimmering summit, and now rests on a plateau of horror, calmly stripping away pieces of the world from around about us until we, too, will be dispatched like flecks of dust from an ornament's surface.

The little cottage near the sea; oh how we had dreamed of our life here – singing by the stove and wild flowers in the fields, picked and arranged on the windowsill for people to see as they carried their fish back towards the mainland. Of course, that reverie has now been dissolved, unnoticed, into the great and wild water of the ocean which cascades around us, more like an endless container being emptied onto our heads than a brutal shower now, and as my wife screams her loudest scream through the water I look down and see what we have waited for so long at last – the head; which next, with much pain and effort and shared tears mixed into the raining sea, becomes the glowing body of my newborn daughter.