Samuel sucks hard on his pipe, smears the filthy window with his sleeve, prays for inspiration. He needs to get something, anything, to his publisher as soon as possible.
He orders another pint. The alehouse fills up with the usual late morning harbour flotsam – porters, dockers, sailors, fallen women; sounds, smells rewarding the senses.
A wedding party bursts in, escaping the downpour.
“Water everywhere,” says the bride.
An old sailor, bright-eyed, three sheets to the wind, accosts the reluctant bridegroom, speaks at him.
A large bird, disoriented, flies into the window, falls to earth.
Samuel picks up his pen.
Written in response to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ weekly 100 word challenge. Find it here.