This morning is bleak, but whether that’s a novel observation at all considering the fact it’s February is up to the reader. I’ve just lurched into a little cafe-chippy place for a bite to eat and a cup of something. The thing on the plate is breakfast in name only- It bears the texture of rubber gloves and smells like melted flip-flops. I decide I need to look at something other than that old misshapen lump, so I check out the street through the little window to my left. A dull fog, the kind of fog I like getting lost in, is snagging on the branches of trees across the road.
A fine bleak morning, then. The hangover might be ruining it a bit, but nothing short of buckshot will sort that. May as well make the best of it and go exploring.
Eventually the supreme beak of a serpent cuts the mist, painted in drab grey. The rest of it crouches in the white abyss, stretching off for what could be miles. Were I of more valiant composition, I’d have a go at it with a lance, but for the moment I’m just content to loiter on the pier. Some halo’d templar will show up soon enough to behead the thing anyways, no need to worry. Then again…
I decide to get out of there- The kind of man that runs about swinging swords with the intention of butchering giant creatures sounds like the kind of man that gets carried away and cuts down the next two or three or fifty bystanders by accident. As I leave I pass an old man fishing, and worry that the next one to bite might end up being the monster lurking further down in the fog. He flashes me a grin of mostly gums and shows off his earlier prize: A stumpy little mackerel, still twitching despite its broken neck. On second thought, he seems more than capable of dealing with the beast. After wishing him luck, I slip off into the rolling gloom, intent on wasting a few more hours.
What were your prompts?: Picture of a ship, breakfast
by Paul Inglis