Monday Microburst: The Quahog Shell
Magical. Mystical. Meaningful. Monday Microburst
Every week, I’ll share a tiny tale from Plymbury—the coastal New England town where all my stories live. These moments are short enough to read over morning coffee or tea, yet just long enough to leave a trace of magic in your day. I hope they become a small ritual you look forward to each Monday.
The Quahog Shell
At Plymbury’s Saturday market, the shell vendor always gave the same warning:
“Every pendant bears a name, but never the buyer’s. The shells know who they belong to.”
Courtney turned one over in her hand, the purple-white sheen catching the light.
On the inside, faint as a whisper, a name was etched:
Waylen.
She nearly gave it back. She didn’t know a Waylen, had never even heard the name before. But the shell was too breathtaking to abandon, its warmth insistent, as if it had already chosen her. So, she slipped it into her pocket.
Later, at the honey stall, she reached for a jar just as another hand brushed against hers. She glanced up, a smile tugging at her mouth.
A man stood with gray eyes sparkling in the sun, a quahog shell resting against his chest. The inscription shimmered when it caught the light:
Courtney.
For a heartbeat, she wondered if her eyes were playing tricks, until the name sharpened clear—her own, written in the curve of a stranger’s shell.
He gave a crooked smile. “I don’t know why I bought it. I don’t even know a Courtney.”
She pulled her shell from her pocket and turned it toward him. Their names shimmered together, and for a moment the market fell into a hushed silence.
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