Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
The night is still as the cool white stars blink above her and the sea laps against the hull of her boat. Each ripple glistens under the half-moon hanging in the sky. Gudrun sighs and begins pulling in her lines. Every line comes up bare, save for the sad looking bait which hangs limply from …
He wasn’t meant to be there. And he knew it. The fence was made of brick put together so smoothly that it was impossible to climb. It rose several metres into the air and encircled the entire property. While there were several signs posted around the perimeter warning against trespassing, he hadn’t found a single …
Writing on Tangents