Micro-fiction competition by Thread LitMag on Threads July 2024.
Dried salt tightens burnt skin on my face, crusted eyelashes crack as tired eyes open.
A fresh sun burns an unfamiliar coastline into focus.
I am cast from the sea’s watery womb, reborn on an endless beach.
Split apart by a searing cannonball, an iron manacle, heavy on my wrist, anchors me to damp, pale sand as a calm lullaby seawater swish chaperones my ebbing limbs.
Timber plank slivers edge the dry sand, under drooping palms and hanging fruit.
Not a soul.
I am free, but alone.
87 Words.
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