The storm settled during the night. The pale morning light revealed a thin layer of ice in the barrel. Woolen socks, warm jacket, he decided. Breakfast was coffee and salted dry herring.
His wife’s belly pushing the blanket up like a hill. She would nag at him for letting her sleep. Mother would taunt her. But he could not find in his heart to wake her.
Behind the squeaking door he could hear her call his name. Across the yard his mother served breakfast. He shivered, put his cap on and walked up the steep path to the little pilot house.
I really challenged myself with a hundred word story in my second language, English. Hope it makes sense. The picture shows the small pilot house on top of a rock that inspired the story. Taken with the zoom lens I borrowed from my father-in-law. Like, subscribe and please comment.