Justin Rutledge
Justin Rutledge At the mouth of the open sea, there are three ships on the horizon one of them is on fire. Black plumes of smoke rise from its charring masts like a mountain's shadow across the dawn. Perhaps those on board are tossing their lean prayers to the wind like holy matchsticks before thrusting their bodies overboard into the furiously silent ocean. Perhaps several hundred miles away a girl brushes a lock of hair from her eyes as she regards the indolent waters. Perhaps she turns, slowly making her way back to a house where the windows are always broken, away from a blackening horizon, towards the hurt of a dawn through a curtain.