Author: SomedayI'llBeEmmaMay PM
In which a girl attempts to write SOMETHING every day in the hope that she will find her 'inner writing voice', become a better writer and gain some discipline. Yeah... good luck with that, kid. A collection of snippets and fragments in different forms and of varying lengths and types. 1 per day for a year (hopefully).Rated: Fiction T - English - Chapters: 5 - Words: 2,196 - Reviews: 2 - Follows: 1 - Updated: 01-08-13 - Published: 01-05-13 - id: 3089396
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Inspired by the song 'The Wind' by The Fray.
There's nothing for miles and miles and miles in any direction but flat blueness. Blue sky, blue sea. No wind, no rain. The sun is floating just on the horizon, bringing the daylight. It's cold now, but in the heat of the day the sun will be searing.
In a tiny life boat in the middle of the rolling waves, a man wakes up. He's browned, beaten and bruised by the sun, wind and waves. Small notches on the side of the boat denote the days that he's been lost. Six notches and counting. Today will be his seventh.
His few possessions are gathered in the bottom of the boat: a small knife, an old sack, a fishing rod that he's made from driftwood and a piece of string, a bag of jerky and a small canteen of water.
His green eyes stare up at the sky for a few moments before he hauls his aching body into sitting position and eats a little of what's left of his food and drinks a little water.
Then, he prays. He prays that this will be the final sunrise he spends surrounded by saltwater, and that he will see his family again.
He dreamt of them last night. Of a bubbling pot on a stove and a warm hug. Of a woman's soft lips and a child's small fingers. So far away...
He can hear her voice in his mind, coming back to him from all those months ago. She's warning him, chastising him, telling him the trip will be a disaster, that fate isn't in his favour. And her fears were realised. But he needed the voyage. For his pride. For his country. For his father. Now all he needs is a saviour.
It's a crazy fantasy that he'll ever see them again. It will take more than wishing and hoping and praying. It will take nothing short of a miracle. Still, he imagines the flimsy dinghy being washed ashore, and her running to him. He imagines a different kind of warmth.
Once the sun is high in the sky and the sailor has spent a good few hours fishing and praying and staring at the sky, he risks a glance at the horizon. It's not something he lets himself do very often, for fear of disappointment.
And there, splitting the sea from the sky, is the tiniest brown smudge. The man lets out a whoop and jumps up, making the boat swing erratically. "Home," he shouts, his voice rough from days of disuse. "I'm coming home!"