The wind screamed a hollow song, spectral wailings engaging with a non-existent audience: the few souls that subsisted on the tiny island remained locked behind dilapidated storm shutters chewed away by time. Great swathes of desiccated grass sliced the landscape, blades bowed in a bid to remain unnoticed in the onyx shadows that dripped from sheer iron cliff faces eternalised with expressions of subdued defeat. Heavy clouds choked the sky with a gunmetal glare persistently smothering the wan rays of a despondent, jaundiced sun.
Regardless of how vehemently the wind howled, there was never a reply. The blank countenances of the cliffs became contemptuous in their reflection of the sound, forcing the gale to continually indulge in no other aural pleasure than that of its own voice. Ivory windmills stood high on the hillside. Their mechanical branches revolved steadily with quiet resolve; acknowledging the command of the air but like all else refusing to respond, consuming its lonesome shrieks for the benefit of the silent eyes that sat, waiting, in their small stone cottages.
(Prompts: stereotype map – God knows, maybe some sheep)
by Annie Milburn