There wasn’t much left of Darcy’s old fishing shack after the storm. The shack had sat on the edge of the beachhead for as long as I could remember and Darcy was just a name my father told me about.

He recalled Darcy as an old man who spent his days fishing at the water’s edge and was forever happy to tell tales of his seafaring days.

A few times over the years I had ventured into Darcy’s old place. There wasn’t much to say that it was a home or anything, more a shelter from the storms and weather was how I looked at it.

Continue reading: Empty #writephoto – Darcy’s Shack.