From The Wreckage

A micro-fiction of death

Wetness splashes my cheek. Sweat drips down my brow. Seashells clang against the rocks as the tide accosts the shore.

Splinters penetrate the soft parts of my feet. The sand cuts into the thinnest parts of my battered flesh.

I smear the wet substance on my face and gaze at the palm of my hand. It is a crimson goo. The sea swirls into a tornado of sand, engulfing me and pushing me to the ground.

My ribs splinter through my torso. The seawater washes it clean until it shines.

I feel the sea dancing on my insides.

I lie on the sandbar and gaze at the glowing ball of heat. It scorches my eyes but distracts me from the throbbing in my gut.

At least, the last thing seared into my mind will be beautiful.

A floating sensation overtakes me; I let it. I grin as the memories of my life flash before my eyes.

Safer than the Titanic, they say — at least I die in warmth.