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The Loss is a short work of contemporary flash fiction by Alison Little, written in response to Silhouette: burnt orange by visual artist Charlotte Hodes. Created as an ekphrastic piece inspired by Hodes’ artwork, the story was developed for The Errant Muse exhibition at the Victoria Gallery & Museum (VG&M) in Liverpool. Exploring themes of grief, miscarriage, memory and emotional recovery, The Loss connects visual art and creative writing to reflect on how colour, place and personal trauma can shape narrative and meaning.

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The Loss

Sunlight brandishes the deserted beach. She lies on her front, body twisted toward the horizon, one hand lifted to shield her eyes from the glare that refuses to soften.

She scans the water for him.

Gone—swallowed by distance and glittering waves. Only out of sight, she tells herself. Hidden somewhere between the white lash of water against the rocks.

Her knees press into warm sand. The thin summer dress clings to her back, rising slightly as she arches, tense now, no longer playful. Earlier, her feet had kicked up behind her, a small, childish habit she had rediscovered on holiday. The sand beneath her burns a deeper orange as the sun climbs.

A hand-crocheted blanket lies beneath her chest and arms. Hours of sore fingers. Tight stitches. Yarn pulled and unpicked and pulled again—busy work for grief. There had been no point finishing the baby clothes. She doesn’t know what to do with the small folded piles waiting in the lined drawer at home. They said they would decide together, after the break. After the space.

The blanket was all she could make now.

Her gaze drifts farther out to sea.

Four weeks since the miscarriage. Four weeks of rearranged shifts and careful emails, of waiting until they were both allowed time away. Swanage, Dorset—easy to book at short notice. The main beach had been crowded with prams and bare knees and small shouting voices, children already growing into the shape their foetus would never reach.

He had suggested the walk. Around the headland. Somewhere quieter.

He was trying to be strong for her.

She knows he is carrying the loss too.

Far out, a long boat heavy with tourists slides across the water toward deeper blue. She watches it and thinks of all the trips they will never take. The packed lunches they will never forget on the kitchen counter. The games that will never be argued over, never finished.

The boat dissolves into glare.

Her hand drops to her stomach. Flatter. Softer. Emptier.

A breath catches in her throat.

She still cannot see him.

Panic sharpens suddenly, absurd and overwhelming. What if she has lost him too? Drawn outward, pulled into that endless shine of water and horizon, into the place where things vanish without explanation.

She shifts to stand.

Petals fall onto her cheek.

One. Then several more.

They land softly in the damp line of her tears.

She looks up.

He is standing behind her, grinning gently, scattering wildflower petals from his cupped hands like confetti. Their eyes meet. They laugh at the same moment, the sound breaking open something tight and fragile between them.

He lowers himself beside her and they fold together on the blanket, salt and sand and yarn and skin. Foreheads touching. Breathing matched.

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing is forgotten.

But, for now, they are still here.

And that is enough.

Further reading for writers The Ekphrastic Encounter in Contemporary British Poetry and Elsewhere offers an insightful exploration of the theory and practice of creating literary work in response to visual art.

If this story resonated with you, you might also enjoy 100 Great Short Stories Written by Women.

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