languid gust of wind made its way across the vast ocean, gently
rocking a way worn scooner. A sphere of the purest orange slid down
the sky sundered upon the horizon and deliquesced into crepuscular
bars on the endless stretches of sea. As a cartilaginous curtain was
drawn across the waters a low radiance ignited from within the cabin
of the skiff, sending white
light to dance about it in
centripetal patterns. The mother ship,
Star of the East, rocked back and forth as the mates below readied
themselves for the sail back to port in the Falkland
The luminance cavorted in and about the gruff hairs on Captain Doyle's haggard face as he stared into his newly created glow, extinguishing the fire-bearing match. Once satisfied with his pipe, he had forged and filled, he returned to his labor, mending his nets for another day's work. Warped planks of the cabin formed chart-plastered walls that met with a low, arching ceiling that would cause the average height to stoop. The wood of the ship wailed with each wave that collided with the hull. Maybe tomorrow would be the day they'd snag a catch, on the way home..
The Captain's heavily callused fingers ran across the mesh with a simple, blunt grace that could only be achieved with many labored days. He sat back, running a hand through the unruly masses of once tame gray that hung stiffly from his scalp. Looking over his craftsmanship he smoothed out the tattered tunic he wore, he had achieved a prideless content with his work. With both hands on his brazen, sea-stained leggings he slowly stood, sauntering to the cabin stairs.