Light shined dull. Once our bodies were fluttering strips in the breeze, fragmented, compiled moments (strained through stacked stone), separated into the ocean's glow, spread through the current, we sank. Light flapped on the surface, it tickled our noses, pulsing. My wife's velvet feet rested in the coiling sand, layered over time. Her stomach flattened, opening over the sea, washed on shore. I heard whispers from my mother. Father inhaled dusty smirks between his charcoal teeth. My hands stretched through the water, but were not long enough to reach beyond the waves into the light. My lungs caved in. I called for my wife from someplace else, my mouth floating near her ear for a moment that passed with the next wave. Stones tumbled into the ocean's dirty windows. My father threw himself into the water. We watched from many angles, and with many bodies we consumed him as he begged.
Ben Spivey is the author of a novel, Flowing in the Gossamer Fold, forthcoming from Blue Square Press. He lives in Atlanta.
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