If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it
in the sand near the water’s edge.
~Napoleon Hill
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.
