short story
By WillowRose
inside the old boat house it is damp and dark. The paint on the walls is all but gone. There is a bench by the window. Peering out the window are the bloodshot eyes of an old sailor. His frail white hand desperately clutching a bottle of old granddad. Shaking, he takes another swig and whiskey runs down his scruffy chin. From here through blurry vision,he could see the desolate land leading to the lake. Only a few dead oak trees stand in the shadows. To the sailor, they appear to be gallows. The old rotting dock is empty and sinking into the abyss. Rain starts to fall, clouds fill the sky. It's a dark and lonely night, in the silence there is only sorrow.A thunderbolt strikes a flash of light a loud sound. The smell of burnt flesh fills the air. The crows, circling, at last have some food Written November 27th, 2001 © on Nov 27 2001 03:22 AM PST 0 • 10
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About this line
"inside the old boat house it is damp and dark. The paint on the walls is all but gone. There is a bench by the window. Peering out the window are the bloodshot eyes of an old sailor. His frail white hand desperately clutching a bottle of old granddad. Shaking, he takes another swig and whiskey runs down his scruffy chin. From here through blurry vision,he could see the desolate land leading to the lake. Only a few dead oak trees stand in the shadows. To the sailor, they appear to be gallows. The old rotting dock is empty and sinking into the abyss. Rain starts to fall, clouds fill the sky. It's a dark and lonely night, in the silence there is only sorrow.A thunderbolt strikes a flash of light a loud sound. The smell of burnt flesh fills the air. The crows, circling, at last have some food..."