Rockhead Island
Rockhead IslandRockhead IslandIn a chair on the front porch of his cottage, Larry Smith swirled ice cubes in the heavy tumbler. The pleasant tinkling sound was barely audible. Wind swirled angrily through the live oaks beyond the boardwalk that connected the row of cottages. The partyers from the night before, and apparently everyone else along the row, had vacated ahead of the storm. He was alone, comforted by the alcohol and the darkness which enveloped him. Like a metronome set to grave timing, he propelled the Adirondack rocker slowly. Another sip of whiskey followed by another burst of wind. It chattered through the tree limbs and nudged the empty rocker on the other side of the porch. In ghostly fashion, the chair mimicked Larry’s cadence.
In a chair on He though
