just trying some descriptive writing
disclaimer: I do not own grace darling
I stand there on the beach in front of the light house. I can feel the sand trickle through my toes; the rough grains scour my feet sore. I look up at the sky. Blue, blue as the fine shirt little Jo always wears to church on Sundays. I sink down into the ground I run my fingers through the sandy grains surrounding me. I feel something pull at my dress. I reach down to swat it off. It stays fixed to my dress. I laughed nervously; perhaps it's one of my brothers doing their best to annoy me. I open my eyes to see who it is; it is not one of my brothers
It's a hand, a sand hand, but a hand all the same. I scuttle backwards the hand advances all of a sudden it's upon me weaving more hands out of the beautiful sandy grains around me. It forces them to attack. They drag me down through the sand, the sand once a beautiful cream but now staining itself red.
My own screams pound at my ears I twist and contort, as I am dragged through layer after layer of soil. I feel something against my mouth; it is the hand the hand coming to finish me of in its homeland. I hear a thud and open my eyes groggily all I can see is white and various shades of red have I reach the earth's core. Surely I'm still in the dream I can still hear those screams those chilling scream of terror and despair. But my mouth isn't open. I swipe at the white and red and feel the softness, hah it's just my home made wool quilt I'm on the floor a cushion pressed against my face. But those screams those screams are real. I run to the window scanning the horizon for any sign of disturbance.
A ship, a ship to close to the shore. The foolish captain probably had too many drinks and didn't notice the sharp rocks lined against the shoreline. They had crashed the blood of their passengers shining red against the surface of the sea. But wait there was still people there, there screams lighting up the dawn. I run down the stairs their screams echo in my ear. I run to my father's room. He's already up his clothes half pulled on and his morning pipe already lit and emitting a foul smell. I see the wild look in his eye's see his mouth open telling me to go back to bed that's nothing is wrong but it's too late I am determined. We run out to the little rowing boat against the side of the lighthouse. I look up; the light of the lighthouse is still shining, brave and strong against the dark whirlpool of the waves.
We head out the wind whipping hard against our little boat, whistling it's soft tunes that are known to lull sturdy shipmates out of their ships into the dark below. We row, our oars twisting and turning in the wind, winding their way in and out of our grasp. At last we reach the first person it's a woman. Looking from afar we thought it was three people but it was just one, one woman clinging o he dead bodies of her own children, dead, we try to drag he away but she refuses to let go of the bodies of her children.
review PLZ thanks
