So because I am stuck on an island this summer, I am on a writing streak so here is take two for the day. This is something that (hopefully procrastination won't hold me back ) will hopefully turn into a complete story. I always seem to have a bit of a hard time with that unless it has a due date. So here is the first segment of Chatham Cove.

CHATHAM COVE

The sky hung in the air, thick and melancholy with a certain tension that made the trees quiver. The clouds entangled themselves in each other, purple and clotted. The wind had picked up from the afternoon, whistling through the empty branches of the trees encircling the house. The slice of the waning moon glinted off the waves as they tormented the rocks crashing over and over, with the promise of a vicious storm. Every few of the windows of Chatham Cove were alight and glowing, contrasting contemporarily to the cruel tone of the dusk outside.

Nathaniel O’Donoghue peered out his small second floor window into the tempest storm, hoping for a clear morning. His train was due in the exceptionally small and, in his opinion, very sorry station, at 6:25 A.M.. Thus, with an air of finality, Nathaniel O’Donoghue snapped his blinds shut, muffling the brewing storm outside. Directly above Nathaniel’s room, on the third floor the curtains remained ajar, letting a soft light emanate from the room. A figure passed the window and back again, pacing the short expanse of their room.

Collette Montel’s room was located on the third floor on the opposite side of the small inn, a single room dividing her and the pacing figure. She was gazing at the lighthouse that sat alone atop the jumble of rocks that supported its base, briefly off the coast of Chatham Cove. The elderly women leaned her elbows on the window sill, rocking her chair forward to watch as the spotlight highlighted the white caps of the ocean, illuminating the fast approaching storm.

The room that stood between the continuous pacer and the aging French woman lost in thought, was dark. The curtains lay open as if it were still day, but no figure was visible from the window, the occupant must have fallen asleep.

But James E. Cameron was not asleep. A puncture in his throat, once having started as a small pin hole was ripping and tearing through his tissue every time he gasped for breath. The blood gurgled out of his neck and mouth, like a twisted impersonation of a fountain. His right hand shook just above the ground, his head barely on the pillow. His body was seizing so violently that, in his last few moments, he tumbled from his bed, landing face down on the periwinkle blue, plush carpet. His eyes rolling back into his skull and his body stilled to that of a sleeping man.

Which is what Taylor Michelson was until a sudden shake of the ceiling above woke him. The stiff, frigid air that gnawed at his face led his eyes to the window that he had left cracked. It had flown against the wooden side of the tiny inn, letting rain trickle onto the floor. In a semi-awake state, he fumbled with the latch on the window, finally managing to secure it and clamber back into his queen sized bed.

Tara Daley lay in her bed in that last room on the second floor. She looked the part of someone who ought to be asleep; she was in her nightgown and her long, graying hair was braided. Her eyes lay closed and her hands placed on her heart, which was beating, as it had not done in years. Her breathing was ragged as she tried to calm herself by repeating Hail Mary’s in her head, lines tumbling over each other in her fear, like the waves cascading upon the rocks below.

Love from,

The Blonde and the Bullshit