Oceanside

Sophie stood, the skirt of her mothy grey dress billowing soundlessly about behind her like a sea-gnawed sail. Before her stretched an ocean of indigo, the line where the sky bent to 1

kiss the sea, impossibly distant. Its waves tore furiously against the sand, unceasing, each announced by a far away crash, the sound of water and ground stone deep in combat. It left the air sharp, and with the fierce smell of salt. 2

It had begun to snow, if that's what you could call the greying blurs of cold. They drove their icy whims deep into Sophie's cheek like spines. From deep within the pool of clouds, the thunder gave a cold cheer. It wasn't quite dark yet- the light seemed to be trapped somewhere, bouncing between the clouds and the ground. The wind fled by, whispering past Sophie's ears and into her hair, weeping and slashing through the leafless trees. 3

Finally, the weather grew too wild, and the girl turned herself about to head back into the house. It looked to her as if it were trying to be a castle, rather than a house, and failing miserably on account of its woodenness. From a distance, it looked like one lonely, spindly hand reaching out from within the hill, with bending turrets and towers and spires for many fingers. 4

When Sophie drew herself into its shelter, the air turned musty and stale with the smell of ancient dust. It was even dank, and sweet with the smell of rotten, long dead wood. Rather 'moggish', if you were to ask her. The door creaked and moaned on dying hinges as she opened it, but shut with a satisfying thud as she stepped inside.5