Muffled in mist, the shouted words are indistinct. But she hears the rattle of heavy chain and the clangour of metal. The ship is making ready to depart for another week, and seven days’ aloneness descends again.
The ship’s horn gives a last bass call, like a circling raptor. Go and open the door, she thinks, but is afraid of the creatures that will populate the silence. Go and open the door. Death won’t be standing there in his dark fedora.
She opens the door, but drizzle shrouds the vessel heading into the sound. There is moisture on her cheek.
Fancy sharpening your skill with writing exercises? The Scrivener’s Forge offers a new exercise every month to hone one aspect of your craft. Take a look at this month’s exercise on character and action