Wheeling Gull Isle lyotard

it stood on the land bridge. it was the early hours of morning.

chilling water lapped at its feet, each roll of waves sending a cold pulse up the veins.

but it was a pulse.

its head turned away from the mainland, and towards the isle.

and towards a man.

(@Bartholomew)

"many thanks, father." it said, and its voice was husky, facetious.

but the smile was audible.

for my 100th post and return from hiatus, i ask for a mew-mew thread