341

The sun over the ocean was white-bright.  The waves, even at a distance, made a calming sound, not unlike breathing, as it washed inexorably up and retreated down the sandy beach.  The breathing water was punctuated by an even more distant heavy sigh against the heavy, black rocks.  In, and out, it breathed, a living force contrasting the changeable and unpredictable lives of the humans on the shore.

138

A building sits, dark and empty. Brick. Three-storied. Industrial, with large, rolling metal doors in the back. The front was faced with stone and had a half-circle, four-stair landing up to an entrance covered by sheets of weathered plywood. Beneath the plywood, protected, was a huge double door, half wood and half window. It had been welcoming. It had been a pleasure to work there. People, mostly men but a few women, had worked there for entire careers. Most, men and women, were dead now. Leaves from trees that had broken through cobbled driveways skittered weakly in the silent corners. The building was waiting.

41

The round, wooden side table was very, very old and it was handmade. It was oak and its dark stain had gotten even darker over the years. The table's design was simple and useful: round top routed on the edges; a drawer cleverly curved to follow the table's lines, blending into the top's skirting; and a single pedestal with three simply curving legs at the bottom.

One of the legs had been ham-fistedly re-glued a few decades past. The top had a few rings where drinks had been set without the careful use of a coaster. The drawer's brass pull had come off and now rattled around in its empty drawer, which was never opened anyway because it tended to stick in humid weather.

The little round table sat in the sun next to a plastic folding table that held all $1 items. There was an orange sticker on the top that read, in black Sharpie, $25/OBO.