morning writing exercise-writing from a smell

The Vase was of roughly hewn rock, with jagged ends, razor-sharp. Inside the Vase was a large bouquet of gaudy garden flowers, made for show, smelling of commercial success in some retailer across the country. It would have to be across the country—across the sea, more likely—because the Vase’s Owner lived, frugally, upon a remote atoll in the ocean. The Vase did not merit any collectors’ qualities. The Owner simply liked the rough and roguish charm of razor-sharp rock and its juxtaposition with the flowers.
It was daytime when the Owner set out to fish. The Owner, being an fisherman, did not like to fish. What soul who had engaged in forty-eight long years of fishing would like to? The Vase made for an excellent fish-catcher when attached to a rod of any wood. As for the flowers? They made an excellent garland on the sea—the Owner could get more from where they came from.
The Owner’s routine was always the same. He woke up, he fished, he ate, he cleaned the Vase, and he slept. It was always the same on the solitary island. His routine was broken on a Wednesday morning, however, when a dark, cloaked stranger approached the cave. He bore a letter in his hands, stamped with the seal of a far-off king. He wore a long, sharp knife at his belt. The Owner shivered.