N.T. Winter

A site for stories

Wakeful Sea

The smell of the salt hung in the air as thick as the fog that floated atop the bleak black water of the ocean’s night. The only hope of light was a full moon that cast shadows that waxed and waned on the deck of an old wooden ship. The silent night occasionally broke by the rustle of the sails. The water’s surface smashed against the ship as it glided across the ocean. The wind struck the jibs as slivers of moonlight cast shadows through these sails. The deck came to life in these slivers of light. Cloaked in the shadows was the presence of a silhouette shape. A man; his features unraveled and unveiled through the soft glow from the rhythmic hue of his orange embers. Cigar smoke drifted in the air underneath his broad-brimmed hat. He peered upward; his sun-tanned skin was tough leather. His wrinkles resembled grains of wood. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow onto his mahogany-stained beard. His eerie serenity collapsed with his hand as he wiped away the sweat from his beard. Both his hand and cigar descended past the tails of his coat. A brown leather bandoleer was slung around his waist. Each loop, minus one, was slotted with a silver-cased bullet. He brandished a pearl-handled revolver. Darkness protruded once more as his cigar smoldered against the bow.


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