If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water’s edge.
The tide was rising as I began to write, using a sharp stick for my stylus. The venom poured from my being, down my arm and etched words in the sand. Every evil ever done to me and what justice should be consigned to the perpetrator. The sun turned my fair skin to a fiery crimson as the salt spray licked my lips. Minutes passed, then hours, I was no longer human, but a creature of sand and sea and sun pouring forth my soul before time ran out. My distress was plain to see, but no one came along. Nobody stopped to read and say, “Poor thing”. The last words had finally been expurgated, my epistle was done. I fell back on the sand, spent but free. I looked as the tide consumed the last line.