100 words

There’s a lighthouse at the end of Baxter Road.  It’s tall – red and white striped – and sits on a piece of earth that is ready to fall.  The ocean is too close – red with tide, its waves big but only crashing on the shore, and dangerous.  Dad told us not to go in unless he is there because of the undertow.  The seaweed is all over the place and gross – red.  It is flimsy and rubbery, spiked in areas – acting like a shark or a scary fish.  We ride our bikes to the end of the road – looking up, forgetting the ocean.

100 words

The clock sits, ticking loudly, letting everyone know that time is passing by.  I look at the mini home – a small wooden box, dark brown – and wait for the bird to come out, to let us know that the hour has passed.  A pendulum swings below.  A skinny arm holds the large circular time keeper that sits below the tiny doors where the bird lives.  I see the small clock-face approaching the hour, and I observe the elegantly inscribed designs – curvy, wavy, wing-like.  I wait, become impatient, so I go downstairs and listen to the still mysterious bird making its time call.