Lines of fire stretched across the sky.

Distant thunder.

I gripped the tiller more tightly, but my sails were flapping anyways.

A light drizzle began to patter against my rain poncho and I shivered slightly. The wind stopped. I stood and released the tiller.

The sea was choppy, but the surface was like glass stretched and molded into fantastic shapes. A dragon grinned at me.

I ducked below. Gloomy and gray. I fumbled for the coffee pot and refilled a dirty mug. Sip. Needed sugar; bowl was empty. Went above.

A seagull was perched on the rail. I leaned against the hatch and took another sip. It took flight.

Gray bird, gray sea, gray sky. Lines. Distant thunder. Empty mug. I threw it overboard.

The radio crackled. The lights were out.

Wind again. Harder rain. I sat and grabbed the tiller.

I looked back. A reddish glow on the horizon. It was noon.

She never had liked the trips, not really. The sea was her mother-in-law.

My watch had stopped. A glassy serpent winked.

La fin du monde. I felt fine.

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