It was dark, and a cool breeze blew in from the harbour. Near to dawn and fishing trawlers were just beginning to exit the quite quay. The water lapped at and played with the breakwater’s rocks as if to taunt them and tempt the rocks into a moment of weakness when the awesome destructive power of the waves could be brought to the fore to obliterate the quay, and the beach, and the town. The earth clung to the mist like a security blanket, as if its vapours alone could ward off the darkness of the night. Streetlamps, with their light diffused and their heads hidden in fog pulsed their unloving heartbeat of illumination and warmly comforted the earth, and the town, and its people. Those people; they who cling to their beds much like the earth to the mist and who brave the waves of destruction for that first haul of the day. This is a harbour town; an old town: a town with memories and stories to tell, if only it had a voice to tell with.
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The lonesome wane call of the lighthouse horn blows and its yellow eye droops with the weight of decades of use, calling sailors back from the depths of weeks of solitude aboard one of those trawlers; back to the comforts of home and wife and child. Back to tender love and loving kiss. Where they too sleep fulfilled in their beds all the while aware of the next boat that will take them to the sea, where they risk their lives for simple fish. Why do they do it? What drives them? This writer knows not the reason, for there is none, but many. Not one man or woman can speak for another on the others’ ambitions and dreams and sorrows. We can only hope to realize our own in our lifetimes, for, what else can life be for but for fulfilling our dreams?
ALL MATERIAL CONTAINED WITHIN THIS BRANCH OF LIT.ORG ARE INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT TO ME (Ryan Burpee).
"From the Void Between Worlds", the Gods made both Mortal and Immortal. Who is the better has yet to be decided. So far, Mortals aren't winning."