Any Port In A Storm

In the northwestern sky the clouds grew tall and dark, like tall dusky giants grappling for the setting sun, each hoping to win the mature, red prize. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled as the competing clouds crashed together. A splattering of fat raindrops assaulted Goodie, Pol, and Castor’s wagon as they traveled the road northwest, directly toward the coming storm.

Castor flicked the reins, “We’ll need shelter soon.”

“Will that do?” Goodie asked as she pointed to an old, ram-shackled cabin that was perched in a stand of trees just off the road.

“Any port in a storm,” Pol said.