Hermits
By Christina Murphy
He collected hermit crab shells because he, too, was a wanderer. The ocean was cold this day as it splashed against his legs. He thought of turning back, but then he saw the pink tint of the shell as it rolled in the waves. He ran over, picked up the shell, and held it to the sunlight. The beauty of the colors was magical, and he wished to be inside that shell forever and escape the lonely life he had. He put the shell carefully in the leather pouch he carried and walked on, watching the sunrise begin in bands of orange and gold across the sky.
Up ahead, he saw the most amazing large shell dappled with pink and lavender spots. He bent over to pick up the shell, and something hideous and black like a deformed claw emerged and grabbed his finger. A flash of hot pain surged through him. He tried to rip the shell away, but he watched in horror as a chunk of his finger came off. He tried to throw the shell away from him, the claw attached itself to his leg. Blood flowed in a large stream out onto the sand where other shells emerged with claws digging into the sand and making a feast of his blood. One by one the shells split open, and the dark, claw-like creatures raced toward him, turning the white sand black with their fierce movements as they covered his body and bit into his flesh.
- - -
Christina Murphy lives and writes in a 100 year-old Arts and Crafts style house along the Ohio River. Her writing appears in a number of anthologies and journals including, most recently, Jersey Devil Press, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Right Hand Pointing, Flash! Anthology, and Cup of Joe: Coffee House Flash Fiction Anthology.
By Christina Murphy
He collected hermit crab shells because he, too, was a wanderer. The ocean was cold this day as it splashed against his legs. He thought of turning back, but then he saw the pink tint of the shell as it rolled in the waves. He ran over, picked up the shell, and held it to the sunlight. The beauty of the colors was magical, and he wished to be inside that shell forever and escape the lonely life he had. He put the shell carefully in the leather pouch he carried and walked on, watching the sunrise begin in bands of orange and gold across the sky.
Up ahead, he saw the most amazing large shell dappled with pink and lavender spots. He bent over to pick up the shell, and something hideous and black like a deformed claw emerged and grabbed his finger. A flash of hot pain surged through him. He tried to rip the shell away, but he watched in horror as a chunk of his finger came off. He tried to throw the shell away from him, the claw attached itself to his leg. Blood flowed in a large stream out onto the sand where other shells emerged with claws digging into the sand and making a feast of his blood. One by one the shells split open, and the dark, claw-like creatures raced toward him, turning the white sand black with their fierce movements as they covered his body and bit into his flesh.
- - -
Christina Murphy lives and writes in a 100 year-old Arts and Crafts style house along the Ohio River. Her writing appears in a number of anthologies and journals including, most recently, Jersey Devil Press, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Right Hand Pointing, Flash! Anthology, and Cup of Joe: Coffee House Flash Fiction Anthology.
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
