text: Alfred Dawson does not wake up easily. At his blessed age of 59, functional joints are a thing of the past. The old man wished for one day where his knees didn’t seem to get stabbed by a thousand knives every time he stood up. He stretches his leg out that day, a hand on his mouth to hold the scream of agony back. When the pain calms down, he tosses his dusty sheets on the floor. With many cracks and yelps of pain he turns around and stands up. He walks his cold hairy legs to the bathroom and turns on the tap. The small light over his broken mirror casts a shadow over his face. He scoops up a bit of water and splashes it into his face. He doesn’t drink coffee. Caffeine never woke him up. “A good splash in your face wakes the body and the mind,” he used to say. Nowadays he doesn’t say it anymore, he just does it. He walks over to the kitchen and opens the cupboard. A few moldy slices of bread and an apple. He closes the cupboard and stumbles to his closet. The musty inside holds a few jackets. He grabs the yellow one off of its hanger and opens the front door. Seagulls caw above him, hovering in the strong wind. Alfred walks onto the rotten planks of the boardwalk. He knows which planks are too dead to provide safe support. In a slow stroll he follows the seashore. A wave crashes into the boardwalk and splatters drops onto his face. The sky is as grey as his beard. He passes by closed storefronts, whose decaying windows and what’s behind them have long been forgotten about. A couple of small piers lead straight into the sea. Along them, wooden sailboats move up and down on the waves. Alfred reaches what little the town has left of a centre. Stalls have been set up, displaying fish and fruit and vegetables in small quantities. Behind a fish stall, a woman in her forties looks at him. Her blonde hair is tied into a pontytail. “Ran out of food?” The old man grumbles. “What do you want?” She holds up a plastic bag with holes in it. “Three mackerel and a cod.” The woman rolls up the sleeves of her dirty red vest and uses tongs to grab the fish. “That everything?” He grumbles again. “£4,30” “Upped the price?” He frowns and begins looking for his wallet. “You can’t find fish anymore. All those big companies have hauled them all away before us little ones can find ‘em.” He nods and gives her the money. She hands him the bag. “Should look at Augusta. Weather like this isn’t good for her.” “I’ll know when she can’t handle it.” He walks away. The pier creaks under his rubber boots as he walks to the end. A rusty ship dances on the waves. *Augusta* is painted on the side in worn off paint. He steps aboard. The algae on the deck squishes when he steps on it. With a loud screeching sound the door to the bridge opens. Alfred grabs the captain’s hat that hangs over the steering wheel and puts it on. He twists the key in place and with a lot of spurtling the motor starts running. The boat sails out of the port of Fischer’s Eve. *** I'm very excited about this one.