The word of the day was "dock" and this is what I came up with. It might be useful as a prompt later on.

The boats bumped gently against the dock. The calm water softly refllected the early morning sunshine, just a few ripples giving away the moments-before plummet her body, wrapped in plastic, had taken as he pushed it over the edge.

She had always loved the coast.

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Some people have an imaginary muse, some people have a real one. Unfortunately mine appears to be my ex-boyfriend (although we're on remarkably good terms). He was upset the other day and said something about not wanting to be that old guy in the bar with the weird, stringy hair, stinking of old cigarettes and complaining about the music on the jukebox. I wrote this this morning:

Angus winced as a builder somewhere up in the roof bashed away at something metal. Not only was this the most boring airport he had ever had to sit in, but it was now the noisiest. He drained the last of the Jack Daniels and coke from his glass and signaled the barman for another. If he couldn't wait in peace, he could at least muffle the discomfort in a fuzzy blanket of booze.

Delayed. The departures and arrivals sign seemed to be mocking him, as his flight's number flashed a friendly yellow. SA 140! Yay! Delayed! He swored at it, and a family nearby frowned at him. He growled at them, and their toddler started to cry. Screw you, Angus thought, what the fuck are you looking at anyway?

He hadn't always been that bitter old drunk in the bar who complains about the jukebox's limited selection of music. Granted, the music was utter shite, but he had a vague memory of being happy once. That was a long time and a different haircut ago. Maybe one day he would find a haircut that worked. That or the rest of his hair would fall out. It would work itself out either way. Win-win. He scratched at his scalp and yawned.

It had been a hell of a long day. Awake at six, to catch the bus to P.E. and this godawful airport, only to be stuck here for two hours (and counting) while some stuff-up at OR Tambo had sent his plane in the wrong direction.
"Fucking third world country," he muttered through his moustache. It was a fairly impressive moustache-and-beard combo that he had been working on for the last month - he had almost more hair on his chin than on his head now. Gravity, he thought.

The barman set another glass down in front of him, and the ice shook as a plane rumbled down the runway. He turned to watch it go, and he was about to curse the lucky bastards who were on it when the intercom buzzed, chimed, and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Flight SA 140 has landed, and boarding will begin shortly."
"About bloody time," Angus muttered, not as angrily as before. The family with the toddler were laughing and smiling, and he realised that they were on his flight too.
"Balls."

I'm not sure where it's going from here. I think I might send him to Mauritius, or crash land his plane somewhere in the bush. We'll see. It's a start.