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The Collection Clinging to the edge of the cliff for its dear life, the ramshackle box waits patiently for nature’s erosive effects to wash its foothold into a raging ocean. Warped timbers lean against each other forming frail walls, searching for that one thing the heavy pitched roof cannot give: support. Barely perched at the end of the gravel path cutting into the landscape’s heart, the shop seems to be reaching its twilight years. Autumn winds manipulate a sky as grey as a sick child, playing a wicked game with the fragile hut. Hurricane arms pull and tear at anything not holding on tight to the wooden substrate. Leprous window frames, pregnant door jambs and cragged slate tiles all struggle to survive, desperate not to be flung into the bleak scenery. Sea air, filled with merciless salt, devours the tired structure, smothering the cabin’s dying screams in its jagged teeth. It is only a matter of time before another prospective tenant takes up residence in Davy Jones’ Locker...
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