Chris Dean does not provide biographical information.

This Darkness Shall Pass (April 20, 2011. Issue 27.)

The water hopped in sharp, pewter bursts over the dock's withered dun planks. Voluminous wet drops of rain skittered around the viscous tentacles. A two-masted ketch caught out in the harbor labored to escape the fray of pounding ocean and pounding storm, and it snaked through the ubiquitous gray troughs. It disappeared, for a moment, and then the thin spires wobbled back into view, along with the dirty white hull. Past the struggling craft it was black. A real storm, one that would jeer at this drizzle and the paltry chop, was swallowing the horizon. It would bash the little village of Point Place mercilessly, with wind and water and fury. And the bay would dance at the evisceration like a roiling dragon from hell.

It was plain on the callused face.

Pitch eyes gleamed inside their nests of creased flesh like hearse lanterns, and the carved russet cheeks were drawn flat and tight. A boulderous jaw housed vermillion serpents. The collar of the ancient colorless jacket flapped at the splotched neck like a spike, but the chiseled monolith never flinched. The diamond black points were speared at the looming destruction, they never moved.

Behind the old man, the door of the restaurant creaked open.

She came out on the porch, his daughter, Naomi. Wind spit and long drips oozing from the leaking porch roof speckled her unfettered dark hair. A gentle, pale hand reached out. Patted his cocked shoulder. A voice full of tenderness passed through her supple pink lips, "Dad."

He grunted, a low noise.

Her green eyes smiled. "Dad, I have fresh," she urged.

"Don't want coffee."

Bitterness, sourness, and grief laced the deep voice and she grieved too. Telling him, "Come keep me company," she plucked at his crinkled sleeve like a child.

"I'll stay."

An explosion of sudden wind rattled the porch. The old man rocked in place. Coarse hazel wings of hair fluttered around the snapping hat brim. His eyes slitted. Salt and wet clawed inside his nostrils. He stood like a stone as the storm pushed at his body. Spray dribbled down the crevices of his face.

The wind tore at Naomi's dress, ballooning the heavy yellow muslin and it swirled. Her flat brown shoes scuffled. She staggered back, dark snakes whizzing around her face. Unbalanced for a moment, she uttered surprise in her throat.

Over the whipping air, he heard her need. His arm lashed out at the tiny sound. Strong thick fingers encircled her soft forearm, steadying Naomi. The breeze abated and he pressed affectionately with a crooked smile cracking above the stubbled chin.

Now she latched onto him, entreating, "Come inside, Dad." A patient mask full of warmth slipped over her face.

Gruff, he heaved his chest out and tried to frown. Her eyes would not let him. She yanked at his wrist now. He tried not to walk. She would not let him. Grumbling beneath his breath, he followed inside.

Naomi guided her father to his chair at the big round table in front. He shrugged at the happy arm that sliced over his broad shoulder for a moment before she went for his mug. He smiled, making sure to hide it. She was not fooled.

He listened to the thumps that swamped the windows and the sodden world outside. He's heard just this a thousand times, and he's seen the world turn dark as storms capture the bay. So many, many times he's heard and seen just this.

But never without Naomi's mother.

Tired eyes searching outside the window, he watched the storm fester. Gray gloom and darkness captured everything in sight. It rushed in a hoard of wind and shrieking, and became a shroud. He has seen the world shake like this before. He has felt the weight of the storm many times.

But never before has it been like this.

A gentle face crowned with golden curls emerged from the darkness over the water, festooned with bright ruby lips and sky blue eyes that hold his soul inside them. For one instant it bursts! He shuddered with joy, and then with heartache as Marie disappeared again. The black of the storm floods his eyes. It has never been so dark before.

Naomi has been slowly moving across the carpet. The chipped tan mug went in its place. She brushed a finger over the thick moist hair ringing his ear. His head dipped.

Moving from her mother's chair, Naomi passed behind him and sat near the window. The rain outside pummeled the roof. His hand, and then his arm, rested on his daughter's shoulder. He drew her close. The tiniest kiss in the world brushed his rough cheek. A sigh thanked her, a brisk breathless puff. Her smiling, they watched the storm together.