by Ria Hill
He remembered the splintering of wood, but it had been so long since he had heard a crashing wave he barely remembered what one sounded like.
The smell of the sea was a memory. The air around his ship’s hull was silent, as still as it was saltless.
In the shocking motionlessness of his surroundings, the captain wondered if he was dead or something worse, but it hardly mattered.
Even though the sea had killed him, he desperately missed it.
He stared, as he had for weeks now, out at the glass that surrounded his ship’s solitary form, utterly alone.
Ria Hill is a writer and librarian living in New York City. When not writing, they can be found in the public library slinging James Patterson books. They enjoy reading, knitting, playing ukulele (badly), and spending time with their spouse. You can find them on Twitter @RiaWritten.