I always greet red dawns with caution. Farmer’s daughter, I turn over countryside sayings like hard-boiled sweets in my mouth. The syrup long since sucked from the center, now all crunch and brittle, the shards pricking my gums in warning. No amount of scoffing, can keep my grandmother’s voice from speaking to the dawn. Soft, and familiar, chanting the same words, myth now made fact. Red mornings are both beautiful, and dangerous. We should watch for a change in the winds.
Jacob paused and counted again. Twenty six. Three less than the last time he’d counted and that infernal orchestra were still refusing to pack it in. If they didn’t stop interrupting his counting then he’d be sending them overboard to find his missing chairs. He jolted forward, scrabbling upwards as the ship lurched again and the deck continued to tilt at a most infuriating angle. The deckchairs began to slide downwards, clattering into each other as they headed for the railings. “Drat.” Jacob spat. He’d got them just right.