suicide

Sixteen bullets. Make it fifteen. Ben reloaded the clip slowly, the gash in his arm reminding him of his too close for comfort encounter.

Got to keep it cool. He held his left palm level with his face. It shook subtly; Ben hoped it would stay that way otherwise he wouldn’t be hitting a barn door let alone…

Something moved behind the door. Ben strained his ears against the silence.

There it was again.

They were out there. Bastards were smart, too dam smart.

Ben prepared himself and wondered if he would make it to the sixteenth bullet it time.

It was not the way it was supposed to be. Pete cursed his own stupidity before the flame of anger turned into panic.

Shit! Shit!

He was useless with his fingers, always had been since a kid, to fat and stubby. Not than slender fingers would do him any good now. He needed leverage.

Or did he.

He was fucked either way.

This was what life was all about, thought Pete, you do your best and you still fuck up. Great stuff.

Pete struggled. It was goddamn uncomfortable. Suffocation was slow, he thought, dangling on the end of the rope.

I had half an hour to write something, having written nothing yesterday. I sat for a moment then thought of sand. As a kid I spent a lot of time on holiday in Wales, running through sand dunes as well as up the steepest ones I could find. Then memories of walking along the beach came to mind, when the sea has left the sand moist and patterned with the tide.

This is where the following poem came from as well as an interpretation of sand.