Whispering Waves
The sun dipped below the horizon—a melting orange skylight, spilling golden syrup onto the evening sea. Here, the waves whispered secrets only the gulls could decipher.
Act 1: The Unexpected Comedy
Gerald stood at the shoreline, poised with a fishing rod,
plotting grandiose tales of sea conquest.
"This is it, my friend! The sunset before my marlin masterpiece," he declared, voice booming like thunder over the waves.
However, the only thing marlin about his evening was a label on a can of fish, hastily dropped by a passing waitress from the Sunset Café. The sketch was in the sea, and the comedy an echo of misplaced ambition.
"Do I look like Ernest Hemingway yet, Fiona?" he asked, casting into silence. Fiona, however, immersed in a self-dialogue about the artistic values of mackerel, offered a sweeping gesture across the horizon.
"Art is my catch," she responded, aloofly dramatic. The sun's last rays flickered across her silhouette, a shadowy muse in the painter's theatre of dusk.
Gerald sighed. The sea murmured back, an apathetic audience. "Let them joke, let them whisper," he mused, "for every wave holds a story."