Creaking door with a strip of light. A way out.

Ruthless wind flies inside. I hide.

Grasp. My hands latch onto the metal residue (is it copper?) of the rusted walls.

The fog is calling.

The power is humming through rubber-coated wires.

I hear a horn in the distance. I climb the final rickety step.

Hands accustomed and proud, I switch on every necessary button in the tower.

The powerful hum surges into a constant note.

I wait.

The horn diminishes. The ship has traveled through the vapor.

I remain, frozen, waiting. Boats keep to themselves.

The lighthouse is ready.


4 responses to “Lighthouse

  1. “Boats keep to themselves.” I love this line. You convey an enormous amount of “atmosphere” without saying much. Just thought I’d let you know.

  2. bgexperiments

    The final four lines resonate with me, as a poem. What if opened with them and moved away from the 100 words to their own territory?


  3. Thank you both. I never thought about that… I guess I could start with “I wait.” I will play with that.

  4. Kyle stolemy comment. Boats keep to themselves is simply fantastic. It gives me theshivers. It would change the tone of thepiece if you started with “I wait.” It slows down the piece as you would become staionary (obviously). But maybe fun to play with

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