Can't Sail From Your Past, Either

The freighter cut through the waves like butter. He gazed out over the rolling sea. The blue sky and steely gray waves were vastly different from the yellow-orange sand dunes behind. The salty sea air was invigorating.

The ship made a strange sound that sent adrenaline coursing through his veins like ice. Every muscle tensed. The sound was yellow-orange.

He saw the messenger stop at the door. Placing the scope to his eye, he nestled the butt of the rifle into place. The man threw a leg over the back of the bicycle and leaned it carefully against the stucco wall. He reached into the wire basket at the front and removed a bundle.

Trigger finger pressed ever so slightly upon the curved metal. The bundle was moved the man’s shoulder like an infant. It wailed. A screech of starvation rudely awakened by the jostling.

He couldn’t shoot.

A voice yelled “gangway!” and a hand shoved him aside on the deck. Stumbling forward, blue-gray replaced the yellow-orange of his vision. He caught hold of the rail.

View this story's 4 comments.