The weeds are heavy and barbed as they wrap around the swimmer’s legs. Tugging, taunting, tearing into feeble flesh. There is no respite: ocean waves prophesy a coming storm as their whitecaps swell and crash o’er the swimmer’s bobbing noggin’.
“Fish food,” he thought. Shark bait; snail fodder. A murky red cloud seeps up, confirming the pain from his weedy lacerations. The moon is high; the tide comes in: these anchoring plants do not float.
A blazing brilliant snap of electric fire illumines the pitchy sky and inky sea, though it is no help. The fishing boat’s no less than kilometres away, barrelling towards the harbour, bent upon preservation.
Breathing liquid salt, the tired swimmer yearns to rest. Without this fight for air, perhaps the kelp snare could be vanquished. Driftwood, volleyball, life vest, styrofoam—anything to keep air in and salt out. Anything
Pass the popcorn, I’m hungry.
What? No butter?!
Nevermind.
1 comment:
This picture is well painted, I like it and yet dont because of what it means for the person being painfully held...like sad story that you cant stop reading because you want to know what happens to the character.
How have you been friend? Hang in there if things are getting a rough, sometimes its possible to hold onto a lung-full of air a little longer then originally thought, and sometimes it makes all the difference :)
Post a Comment