A rusted van, parked at the edge of a beach. The trunk lies open, exposing the various old and broken objects inside. It’s been abandoned for some time. The beach is made of cooled lava which has broken into sharp pieces. Dark clouds impede the sun’s rays. A lone fisherman stands on a small cliff, braving the fierce waves, unmoving.
A young boy sits nearby, his feet in a small pond that continually fills and drains with the motions of the ocean. Fish dart around at its murky bottom. Snails, crabs, and even some grass find their way in-between the numerous cracks in the ground. The sun has found a reprieve, a gap in the clouds. Here is seems calmer, more peaceful. Friendly, even.
The boy initiates conversation, with funny anecdotes and youthful advice. How to catch fish, or that one time he found a geode. He’s waiting for his father to catch a meal, you see. You settle in, finding a comfortable boulder, grateful for the company. It’s been a long day.
After what seems like only a few minutes, you realize the sun is setting. It glimmers over the peaceful waters. Crickets begin their song. You remember your responsibilities, promises and obligations. This was nice, but it’s time to go.
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As you move to get up, the boy asks if you’d like to swim with him. He wants to see the glimmering fishes before the light dies, and the waves aren’t so bad anymore. The water is clear, reflecting brilliant reds and oranges, surrounded by black. You owe him for his company, so you agree.
The ocean is surprisingly cold as you enter, but the boy is wading in deep. You try to catch up. Your feet dig into the sharp edges of the rocks below, and grit fills your eyes as you continue deeper, deeper still. You ignore the slight pain, blinking furiously, and see the bay is getting farther away.
A few seconds later, a large wave crashes into you, spinning you around. You flail around, wondering where the ground went. The water is rough. It takes you awhile to stabilize. You look back, only to find a harsh cliff buffeted by numerous, powerful waves. Another one catches you unaware, and flips you upside down. The saltwater burns your eyes and fills your throat. You can’t find the boy. It is unsafe, and you start to panic.
This time, it wasn’t a wave but a slap from god. You don’t know what you did to deserve this. The impact drives what little oxygen you had from your lungs. The shockwave pushes you down. You hit the hard rocks below. Your right arm snaps and you scream in agony.
Too weak and injured to swim, you start to drown. Your vision dims as your brain shuts down. Everything is so heavy, you can’t move.
Suddenly, you feel something pierce the inside of your throat. A hook? It’s connected to a fishing line. With hope-inspired energy, you tug on the string and try to escape. You’re pulled out of the water, high into the air. After several seconds of gasping, still clinging to your life-line, you look up at your captor. God has truly abandoned you, because it is a skeletal frame holding the fishing rod, flesh rotted away, mad eyes staring with hunger. Next to him, the ghost of a drowned boy.