Ice and water bit at his eyes. Salt ravaged his wounds. Ropes bound him to his boat. And waves fought against his intents. But the craft continued to carry Roland towards his destination, a lone rock sectioned from the land. Isolated by the sea, and scorned by all life save the trolls the singular stone is said to home.
Roland seeks it with his heart. Though his eyes, his mind, wish their didn’t and try to tear themselves away. It’s why he was bound to the boat in the first place. He seeks something, a wish granted, a boon or a bane for someone else and his only resort are the trolls.
The sea goes silent as Roland’s boat drifts towards the island. The wind has died. The birds flown off. Even the creak of his craft and the chafing of the ropes has ceased. All fall away as Roland steps onto the seaweed strewn landing. He takes a moment to inspect the flotsam. It being the only other thing to have made it to the island.
But it is an iridescent purple. Roland bends to poke at it. His finger releases a sickly sweet smell with every prod. When upon land it would be brown and stink of salt or fish. He tries to take this as a good omen, but the rock before him sucks at his hope. It reminds him the trolls wait. And he cannot.
Today’s art is courtesy of Amir Zand from Istanbul, Turkey.