Wheeling Gull Isle glory

the corpse would not turn its head to watch the preacher leave. seated and swaying, it would pretend to still commune with his ravenous deity.

only when the good pastor is but a silhouette, chasuble of light spilling over his shoulders, its head would bend backwards.

in the dark of the cave, only its eyes would shine.

it, and the rippling glitter of the waters.

and what strange illumination they gave.