MEGAN PRATT

The squall had come and gone, as had happy hour. The taxi sat bobbing on the dock, a dull thud accentuating each wake as it passed under the bar. The salt smell of the ocean had at last been suppressed under the rain of an hour before. The sun, and my desire to stay awake, were fading, as was the last of the storm’s chill. Bed, the bench in the cockpit that served as a bed, was waiting, but not before the day gave me one more shot of light, color and joy.




Megan Pratt is a writer living in California.


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