A Rookery of Tin Pans

Two evenings in a row I find myself writing.

Brother Gane rests his elbow on the arm of the chair. He props his head on his thumb and middle finger and rubs his forhead with the spare index. The sun is down. The sea is black.

Behind him, through corrugated metal walls, the nighttime cacaphony of The Song swells with the tide. He resists the urge to check the time. Curfew will fall when it falls. Until then The Song will rattle and cheer and squawk like a rookery of tin pans. Many villagers already sleep. Only the bars and dance cans remain open for business. He stands abruptly and leaves his room.

Beetles clatter at a bare bulb lighting the gang running in front of his door. The early arrivers and first to perish crunch under foot as Gane strides to the railing and heads upstream away from distraction. A quick hres might muffle the noise, but it would also tug at his attention and he can’t have that tonight. Tonight he must find a way to extricate MC and bring her to [wherever] before this trial concludes. For that he needs concentration and time to work out the moves.

He checks the time after all: five more minutes.

211 words on day 503