General

His weathered face was always on the look out. He would sit in the local diner with a plate of fish and chips, a surely glance directed at anyone who walked in. His left eye closed due to a criss crossing of white scars which had been caused by a hook to the eye and his calloused hands often playing with a spool of fishing line. If you looked into his eyes, the cloudy grey would tell stories of raging storms and a love of fishing which had been cultivated through his father.

By Lily I-Shesnicky, September 9, 2014.
General

The fisherman was old, but younger than he appeared. After decades in the open air, out in all weathers, his skin was tanned and more thick than most men of his age. He wore his now white beard thick and bushy. It wasn't that he was trying to be the picture book stereotype of old fisherman, it kept his face warmer on those cold blustery mornings. After a day on his boat, with the wind whipping across the ocean and into his face he could taste the salt on his lips. Despite his years he was more muscular than half the young men in the town. They sat at desks, he hauled nets. His mind was sharp, he was a philosopher and a poet. Last year he published an anthology, an ode to his two great loves, the ocean and the girl he'd adored since they were kids.

By valentina10, October 4, 2014.