The Mirror Image raced the storm. She was the fastest sail on the bay, but this was the greatest race of her career. A race with the wind itself.
It was a beautiful storm. The sun rose gold ahead of her, lighting the water with its false promises of the day ahead. Behind her, dark clouds loomed over the golden rays, over the Mirror Image, over the glassy surface of the bay. Sheets of water waved below them, riling the water into angry ripples like a shattered looking glass.
A fork of light split the gloom, its electricity carried through the rain to set teeth on edge. It was too close for comfort, but the sails were full. She had lost the race. Buffeted by the edge of the storm, sails dampened by spray were furled and tied. Sea anchor cranked and rattled into the depths. Her mirror image in the water dimmed and scattered as the rain caught her. She would wait, secure against the onslaught, her masts barren in salute.
The Word Worker 