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Weekly Contest #60
A man stands at the base of his lighthouse on Cally Island, staring into the blanket of fog that hovers over the open water. His name is James McColley. With his left hand he rubs the crusted sleep out of his eye, and his right hand tightens its grip around a shovel. It’s a heavy thing, that shovel. Its sturdy wood handle weighs against the man’s weary shoulder. The head is wide and sharpened at its point; the cold steel rings in the his ear, ready to do its work. The shovel is his in the same way that the lighthouse is his; inherited, ...
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