by any other name, danger remains the same
Her wooden tub rocked side to side, like a politician dodging a question. Riding whitecaps wasn’t in the plan. Yet here she was, looping a rope around the wrist.
“Never enough to knot and hold on,” voiced waves of her sea-cold mother. The fob on the rope bore the name of the ship. Most of the name. The rest payed out into splinters.
So that’s it, then. To be orphaned on the frothy mouth of a medium that would tolerate a mistake no more than bear her weight.
Still, she had the spindrift box. And she had Metonymy, her Jack Russell, where he needed to be. His ears, smeared with salt water, were red and dripping. Above them, the canvas cover bled.
( Metonymy: referring to someone or something by an associated idea. )
