The waves crashed on the rocks at the point, Harold heard them, but only in that way you hear things just out of the way, like neighbours fighting or the alarm clock on bad mornings. He shook the ice in his glass and chewed the inside of his cheek. The bartender was giving him the side-eye as he dried the glasses.

A thick finger freed itself from Harold's fist, pointing up, waved towards his empty glass. The bartender, slapped the towel over his shoulder and fixed another gin and tonic.
Harold nodded and brought the drink to his lips.

He turned on his stool, leaned against the bar, looking out the patio doors. There she was the mighty Pacific, so blue and fresh. Waves slapping anew on the sand. Harold had come out here for a fresh start. Though the sea air might purify what little he had left of a soul.

"Never even went swimming," he thought.

He pushed up from the bar and walked unsteadily to the open windows.The waves crashed against the rocks of the point and he felt the salt on his lips. Then he heard the thin high voices. He stepped out of the bar and walked down towards the siren song.

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CraigTowsley (joined almost 11 years ago)
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I think this site is like a power juicer to the armadillo-skinned oranges of writer's block.

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