I dreamed about water; my stomach was a dead horse, my breath a heavy cart. I dreamed of water free of salt. I dreamed of springs. I dreamed.
Then I woke.
Bodies moving all around, reeking fright. The gentle rocking of the sea had ceased. Leeward leaning; Silence. The coughing of the engines dead.
We moved as one; towards the padlocked door: Screaming, breaking fingernails.
Water to our ankles,
Water to our waists,
Water filling all the voids, our mouths.
They say color of the sea is blue, for me it’s black.
I am the water. I am the waves.
This week I saw the fence and water and could not get the image of the refuge boats in the Mediterranean out of my head, I wanted to write a little bit of chopped up prose (or maybe it’s poetry) that would describe the contrast of the terrible situation better.
Friday Fictioneers is a group of blogger who each week write 100 word stories based on the same image. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields manage the group that some weeks can be 100 entries. I try to read as many as I can, and I always try to reciprocate commenting visits.
May 6, 2015