#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 ( Read more... )