The cockle-shell sat, bleached white by the sea, by salt and sunlight, by the constant, grinding corrosion of the encroaching tides. The lapping of the ocean against my ankles, the sudden, short screams of the gulls carried across the cloudless sky.
The short, sharp screaming of a small boy, his saliva bubbled in his throat. As he died, breathing his last. Breathing in the sea, the salt and the sand.
His foot impaled on the spines of a stone-fish.
Its poison flashed, arced, shoot through the sole of his foot, corrupting his blood.
He died, collapsed onto the stone-fish, crushing it beneath his weight, crushing the cockle-shell.
This story is a (relatively) true story, written with a fictional twist for this weekend’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. The fictional part is about the cockle-shell, my friend and I were walking on the reefs around Christmas Island when he stood on a stone-fish. Their poison won’t (usually) kill an adult, but for a child it is fast acting. And you can’t see them hiding in the sand or in the reefs.
Anyway, comments and criticisms always welcome.