Astor clings to hope like the bruises cling to her skin. Bright, hard, and for too long. Her eyes water under judgmental winds, mothering fingers caressing her hair. Astor wants to curse.
She's candid they say. She sees mountains of water approaching, fish struggling recklessly in their wake. She watches with a furrowed brow and honeyed eyes, clinging to hope.
Astor watches the sand, gleaming under the sun. Some kid drew a stick figure and gave it a heart, made it from pomegranate seeds and dead roaches.
It's subtle, she thinks while she unties her hands. A message she doesn't know how to read. What she can see of it says wring out your clothes. But in all the time she's stood on this beach, Astor never touched the water.
Her toes are caked in mud, coated in sand. She likes to think of them as virulent, abatis. Her mother's voice rings through her ears, and she clings to hope.
Hope has become a rabbit, grey and soft. Its milky blue eyes never blink, and a thudding heartbeat stutters in its chest. Astor can't hold as tightly to hope as she once did, Hope breathes. Weird.
Around her the sand shifts under the weight of a coming wave, seagulls screaming as they swoop above. Her alcove has become a strange prison, keeping Hope and Astor enclosed in rock.
Astor could leave, could climb or swim. She doesn't want to.
Hope squirms in her arms.
YOU ARE READING
Scraps of A Mind
General FictionUnder my feet is the earth, above my small form is the sky. Both seem endless and vast, stretching onwards forever. In between these things are thoughts, rattling around in my brain like a landslide with no direction. Here are some thoughts, the one...
