Weekly Creative Writing

 It was an old house.  A cold house.  Long since devoid of life, save a few spiders who made their homes bigger as generations of them lived and died, undisturbed, slowly spinning their clotted webs over the great drafty mullioned window in the front parlor.  The window overlooked the sea.  Over the calm sea. Over the stormy sea.  For the ocean is anything but one thing, you see.  The ocean is a friend and an enemy, a cutting, biting, deadly provider for mankind.  All men love and fear it, as it exerts its force upon the sphere of its domain, pushing back the rocks, always pushing.  But to the window, which overlooks this being we call the sea.  The old glass distorts the waves, if their tortured forms as they leap in storms can be more distorted.  Here is where she stood, in the storm, waiting anxiously for his ship to return.  Through this very glass the lightning flashed and in the light she could see the masts of his ship, standing out to sea.  And towards this window he instinctively looked as he fought the waves alongside his men.  So close, so close to home, so close to port, so close to her and yet, somehow he knew he would never get there.  He lies at the bottom of the rocky bay, she in the old churchyard now, but the window remains, framing the seascape which will exist long after the window, too, vanishes into the perpetual evening of the mists of time.

For the counterpart of this themed joint writing project, click HERE