Thursday, October 8, 2015

Untied

            I stand on cliff’s edge, waves pounding against an obsidian rock a hundred meters below. The empty Atlantic Ocean splays out in front of me, touching the grey sky.
I shuffle my feet and look down. The tips of my red converse shoes hang out over open air. The right one is untied. The rock is small, jagged, only the size of my thumb. I bend down and tie white laces. Mist tickles my face.
I stand. Wind ripples my blue shirt, biting into my skin. Like the frozen water would have bit her. My eyes become acid. “Why?” I shout. God doesn’t answer. No one does. A seagull cries overhead.

I take a single step forward. 

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