Memoir

The edge of the cliff crumbles under my bare foot and gravity sucks at the debris, water reaching up and swallowing it ravenously.
The white waves slap at the rock below me in a low lion's roar--hungry for more.
Hard black crag shoots up in jagged forms, their soft, organic shapes sharpened by the ferocious onslaught of the sea.
Timid footsteps guide me from a warm, safe campfire. I look back at the dancing, crackling firelight.
It sings for me to stay--to come home, but the fire is just one voice--the sea chants a chorus--swaying to the harmony it produces.
I gaze back down to the monstrous breathing mass of water as it beckons to me--urging my drop.
Wet arms push up against the cliff and explode into millions of salty tear drops that sprinkle my face. Delightful feathers of excitement tingle down my spine and dissolve at the small of my back.
The sea sends up thousands more of these cold, undulating pearls of water before I finally succumb to its call, leaping from the cliff into the ocean's thirsting embrace.

The Burned Boy

Lidless eyes search for an end. The light at the end of the tunnel. But that was all there is... Light. Hungry, insatiable light licking with tongues of fear and pain at numb skin and bone. Hateful bites and nips on every inch. Fingers scratch at it, push it away, but it is all-consuming. Scorched terror and screams echo through the tunnel of flames, praying for death.

Inspired by
The Burned Boy: Anne Caston

Flash

Stuffed bears lean precariously against the plastic table.
Hand-painted tea cups lay waiting for little fingers to reenact intricate scenes of refinement and glamour.
Outside the air is gray and heavy.
Shrapnel is entombed in the ground and flesh.
There would be no little girl to play tea party today.