by Peter Warnock

The harpoon struck just below her eye. She flipped and lurched, letting out a horrible, booming moan. The ocean transformed into a foamy red soup. The crew cheered but he could not. He pulled his trembling hand away from the trigger. That majestic, black hole eye always before him as he turned the boat around.


Peter Warnock lives and writes in south-west London.

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