Summer Drabbles
#49 Crab
July, 1879.
Although the blank, blind glare of the sun has long since slipped behind the lid of the horizon, the sand beneath her still feels warm. She lets handfuls slip through her fingers, tick-tick-tock. Someone’s hourglass shall run out tonight.
Daddy, massive, lounges alongside her.
A pale white crab scuttles over, flecked with surf and sand. Drusilla’s hand is a whiter, larger crab beside it. It crawls over her fingers and she feels the prickle of its spindly shanks against her skin.
So hard on the outside, so soft underneath.
“Daddy, I want a baby brother.”
July, 1879.
Although the blank, blind glare of the sun has long since slipped behind the lid of the horizon, the sand beneath her still feels warm. She lets handfuls slip through her fingers, tick-tick-tock. Someone’s hourglass shall run out tonight.
Daddy, massive, lounges alongside her.
A pale white crab scuttles over, flecked with surf and sand. Drusilla’s hand is a whiter, larger crab beside it. It crawls over her fingers and she feels the prickle of its spindly shanks against her skin.
So hard on the outside, so soft underneath.
“Daddy, I want a baby brother.”