On Sunday 7 December 1941 Bobby stood balmaha on top of the hill watching the sunrise before heading to the mess for breakfast. He’d been coming up here before church for the last three months to admire the island’s beauty. The blues and greens of the harbour were dotted with the shimmering grey of sleeping battleships. The warm breeze tickled the back of his neck and the birds’ early morning chorus was building to a crescendo.
As the sun rose Bobby took out his guitar to fine-tune the song he was writing for Maureen back home. Gee, he was looking forward to seeing her next month.
For 100 consecutive days I will write and post a short story (about 100 words) incorporating a randomly selected word from Afterliff: A new dictionary of things there should be words for.
With hands on hips and feet wide apart; the stance of city dwellers appreciating the view at weekends.
To step in and out of the tyres on an obstacle course.