The porch creaks underfoot. I pause, inhale deeply–salt water, damp earth, dying plants, baked rock. Breezes sway the wooden porch swing to my right. Trees whisper over the pulse of the ocean. The rusty spring hinge protests when I open the screen door which I let rest against my back. My key slides smoothly into the new brass deadbolt. Twist of the wrist, press of the thumb latch, the door drifts open silently. A barely-there plate-glass window brings a salmon-and-smoke sunset from the sky, across the bay and the hardwood floor, right to my feet.


From the NaNoWriMo page on Facebook: For today’s Friday writing prompt, we want you to describe the door/portal/entrance to your dream writing retreat in 100 words or less.


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