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Post by Dorian St. Pierre on Jan 10, 2014 19:48:04 GMT -5
DAY ONE - NIGHT - CASTAWAYS GATHER AROUND THE FIRE
Although the crash had occurred hours before, the fuselage continued to smolder in crimson flame, blanketing the nearby area in thick smoke and illuminating the far end of the shoreline. The only light source in the otherwise velvety black darkness was a fairly large bonfire on the other side of the beach, about two hundred yards away from the fuselage. Fragments of the plane were scattered haphazardly across the shoreline, illuminated eerily by the blaze of the fire. The shouts, screams, and roars of the jet’s remaining turbine engine had died away completely, giving way to a ghostly silence. The rumble of the waves against the jagged rocks offshore created a kind of soothing, rhythmic melody and the foliage along the tree line rustled softly in the cool breeze.
Dorian St. Pierre sat with his back against a large fragment of what used to be the blade of the other turbine engine, the casing of which sat shattered not far away from the fuselage. A cigarette in his hand, Dorian looked up at the dark sky and thought how odd it was to be able to actually see the stars. He chuckled, reminding himself that on a clear night, back in London, you were lucky to make out the occasional constellation. But here, in the near complete darkness, hundreds of tiny lights and constellations littered the sky. It was ironic; something so beautiful amidst a scene of such abject despair.
Dorian took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and took a rusty looking silver lighter from his pocket. With a small click of the thumbwheel, a tiny flame erupted from inside the Zippo, momentarily silhouetting Dorian’s darkened face. St. Pierre brought the tip of the cigarette to the light and allowed it to catch flame. He sat there for a moment, looking down at the smoking cigarette; he hadn’t touched one in nearly four years. In fact, he had given up smoking after Juliann had been killed; she had always hated the way Dorian would sit on that silly park bench just outside their flat, puffing on the damn thing. But now, that seemed like a very long time ago. St. Pierre brought the small, white rod to his mouth, inhaled a long puff of smoke, and then gently exhaled. “Damn.” Dorian whispered aloud, his eyes watering from the unfamiliar sting of cigarette smoke.
He gazed into the darkness and could make out the silhouettes of what looked to be a dozen people gathered around the bonfire, their outlines visible against the glow of the smoldering flames. He couldn’t make out what anyone was saying; to be fair, he was at least a hundred yards away and they were only speaking in hoarse whispers. He thought about getting up and joining them, but then thought better of it and took another long puff of cigarette. He was probably better off alone, anyway.
... words: 483
... oufit: click
... tag: none yet
... notes: for either Samantha, Jay, Katherine, or Erika!
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