For lack of better things to post, here's the first part of my complete short story The Keeper of the Phare that I wrote during the summer. As always, the fun in reading them (or so I intend them to be) is trying to find out the hints and cues of where fiction meets reality.

He was a man of the sea, as bluntly as it could have been said. Often on quiet nights he would walk to the wooden docks that jutted out towards the open sea, and look up into the dark starlit sky, wondering if his presence could be acknowledged by the sandy bright grains that dotted the heavens. The sound of the waves reassured him most, its consistency a thread of reliability in the complex human society he belonged to. Not that his colleagues were unreliable- about some he wouldn't worry a bit- but then again the creaking of the dock hinges proved all the best remedy for his daily troubles.

Around his neck hung a pendant of pewter with a dolphin inscribed- a cheap souvenir from a distant cousin- and yet he found it represented him the most, for at any moment he felt compelled to jump into the ocean and disappear forever. Nay, he was no loner. He wasn't a social outcast, ignored and forgotten by the rest of the world. True, he hadn't a family, for his wife had left him for another man, and they had no children, and his parents had long since passed away, but that didn't make him a hermit by nature.

The lighthouse he took care of stood at the northern end of the tiny isle, no more than a hundred steps wide. Rocks decorated the outer fringes in a haphazard manner, and were it not for the wooden dock, climbing up the weather beaten rocks would have been out of the question. The lighthouse itself was constructed of solid stone painted entirely white, although its door conspicuously painted green. Inside was a set of thin green wired stairs that snaked up the constrictive structure, to just below the glass encased lamp that lit the way for oncoming ships. There was what was called his room, simple yet homely with its wooden floors and gas lit lamp that perched somewhat precariously on the wall. He could only afford a small window, for often waves would plummet the side of the lighthouse and any larger window would surely break. Therefore he would often read close to the window or by the gas lamp even during the day. There was one stove, a cupboard (in which he stacked foodstuff) and a bookshelf. A simple sleeping bag offered comfort for the night beneath the stairs that led further upwards, towards the switches and the lights.

Written on Wednesday, September 8 at 7:59 PM