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Monday, January 9, 2012

a short story

Like a red morn that ever yet beckoned, Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds. Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
-- Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis

5 a.m. Overhead, the sky was still midnight blue, stars still visible. The horizon was blood-red cut in stripes by thin wisps of yellowish-white clouds.

She carries a digital camera to capture every moment. She has pale yellow hair, blue eyes, white skin. Dresses in red and blue with a star emblem on the blue.

It's funny, she muses. The Indians once chased my ancestors out to these islands and now I'm going the same way voluntarily.

Storm begins. Tide comes in too fast. Realizes she will have to wait it out on the island.

On the way home, after the sun has set, she slips and cracks her head open in the darkness. A trickle of blood down her white face, between damp locks of pale yellow hair.