Creative Writing,  My Writing


I must get back to the sea, before the sun dries me out completely. I can feel my skin cracking as the salt seeps into my skin’s layers.

There’s no moisture left in my mouth. I lick my lips, but they are still chapped. Skin peeling off as my tongue catches on the skin. They are getting drier and drier.

The sand is scratching my scalp. Joining my hair at the root. Pushing it’s way into the follicle. Scratching, scratching away. Drying everything out. Rubbing away skin cells. Leaving it raw.

I can’t move. My scales feel too heavy, too void of moisture. And even if I wanted to move, I can’t. I’ve been beached too long. Can see the sea but can’t quite reach it. Can’t  pull myself along the beach. Can’t maneuver my lower half. Can’t co-ordinate my limbs or make my brain think logically. I have limited time left before it’s a lost cause.

I can’t call for help. There is no one around. No one to save me. And I can’t save myself. But I have to get back to the sea.

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