The strip of sand is thin. Stretching for miles, snaking around the island like a serpent waiting to awaken. The remaining land is rock, worn smooth by the sea.
I walk along the beach, wet sand soft and forgiving beneath my feet, squishing between my toes.
I am lost before I am done.
My footprints washed away, waves cresting, crashing, hushing my breath, erasing me.
Weeks crawl by, worries creep up. Will I see another human before I die here?
A set of footprints.
Someone else’s? Or the ocean playing tricks, saving one of my own to torture me?
October 12, 2016 prompt: Sand – In 99 words (no more, no less) tell about a walk across the sand. It can be a literal day at a beach, in the sand box or a metaphor of your choosing. What is the sand like and what does it reveal to the reader?