Her breath went still inside her mask, her fingers hovering over the clasps.
Where had the clear skies of moments before gone? The smooth sailing into the blessed waters of her future? Where were the soft pastels of harmony and enchantment that made you want to run to the horizon just to taste the sky?
Like a stampede of restless horses kicking up charcoal dust, the storm was amassing itself as if for war, making ready to gallop headlong across the sea.
Shiloh heard the thunder of hooves as the mass charged forward, a distant drum that cracked the water like ice as it churned toward the East.
Toward the East, and the lonely form of The Scarecrow, where Shiloh’s unsuspecting vessel etched a tranquil V in the waters of its wake.
The road to Paradise is riddled with turmoil. Be careful what you wish for.