By Will Dixon
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I moved towards the edge of the quay, racing green water lapped enthusiastically against the raised, splintered wooden ledge that was a little mottled on the sides from slapping tides. Speckled lichen, black and white, appeared then vanished if observed.
Six months since a position in the sales department of a prestigious yacht company on the south coast had expired, there had been few thoughts in my mind that the right decision in which to follow a dusty, narrow path bordered by lush grass banks and thorny hedgerows of spiky brambles and burning brown bracken, away from all the critical decision-making and cream leather upholstery had been right.
If something is stolen then it can’t be lost, whether it is warm sunshine or sea breeze. Tammy walked towards the desk of Steven, entranced, with his hands platted together atop the crown of his head, slightly crushing the spikes of his chestnut hair. Puzzled that her authority far exceeded her experience due to her marriage to the company owner. Her crimson suit wrinkled with every step as her bronze legs purposefully bulged in the calf. I hadn’t met such a scornful middle-aged woman.