Friday, June 10, 2016

Sand Hand

The hand held me tight in the wash. It jutted out of the bottom of the wash like a branch, but held my leg like a lion. I looked around, fighting the thing trying to pull me down into the sand.

I fought the desire to yell and plead. No one I wanted to respond could hear me this far from the cabin.

The thing pulled me to one knee.

This couldn't get worse, I thought just before the first raindrop struck my cheek.

Soon the ground was damp, but the rain fell heavier upstream. I saw the sticks and boulders pushed by the mud moving my way. The hand held me tight to the sand.

I waited to join it under the sand.

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