Beneath my hands, the sand is burning hot. Glass grains, sharp and jagged, dig into my skin, embedding themselves into my red raw palms. The burning sun is draped across my back, my shadow is a shroud.
I'd lick my lips, but my mouth is bone dry and my tongue a rasp across cracked and sensitive tissue.
And yet I keep digging in the sand. Searching desperately for the water I know is beneath me. It's here. It has to be. There are trees here. Yes, they're dead, but that just means the water is farther down.
Must keep digging.
Lisa Williams over 7 years ago
Love 'my tongue a rasp...' X
Jeff Taylor over 7 years ago
Many thanks :)
Jeff Taylor over 7 years ago
Thanks Drew :)
Neville Hunt over 7 years ago
The dead trees so dramatise how hope is conquering reality. Great stuff, Jeff.
Jeff Taylor over 7 years ago
Wow, got a lot of feedback for this one! Thanks Neville. Much appreciated all. I've started posting them on my new author page at Facebook/Jeffwrote