The Lighthouse

The autumn sun smiled softly across the gentle waves that lapped against the old wooden pier. The lighthouse threw a morning shadow as magpie’s note rang out from the swaying trees.

Dawn’s light poured through the dusty wooden blinds and washed over the white linen sheets that lay crumpled and kicked off the bed.

She lay naked, breathless and beautiful. Black hair tumbling across her pert breasts. ‘I love our house,’ she sighs.

He stares up at the powder blue ceiling, a little dreamy and wet. ‘I think this might be a good morning to make marshmallows,’ he replies.

–Michael Faudet

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