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Whisked by Water's Wings
#WritcoStoryPrompt27
A flock of geese flying high up against the blue sky, squawking away in familiar harmony, roused me into that state of consciousness that lingers just before awakening from a restless slumber. The harsh slap of salty, surf laden water struck me with a ferocity that had me gasping into complete consciousness. My shoulders and arms felt sore, almost as if they didn’t belong to me anymore. How could they when I had spent more than forty eight hours clinging on a piece of driftwood in the middle of the bloody ocean!
Being stranded was just as it seems, downright difficult! I knew I might die and that's a lot to carry as I thought of my breath ending, it became stiller in my lungs.
All of time and space was the place I was in and it held harsh, foggy, miserable doom. I put my energy concentration into my limbs, I struck every forceful object with wild urgency. My heartbeat was obvious to me, which came as a surprise in the ocean there was much vicious and trumpetting noise. I felt I had little chance but all the anxiety could have proven otherwise that is why the story is worth telling, I thought to myself, that I must struggle onward, that is why. My precious instance carried me to dry land as the weather changed synomously with the light, and my own sense of danger.
That it was a new day bore the most significance. I must make haste through the vivid horizon, how quaint, as I thought of the others and I would treasure their every help, I did not yet want to become a historical landmark so instead my triumph was to become master of the receding depth, which I could sense and there it was, salvation. There, my mirth would not calm, there the land. Forward my own captaincy said. It was not an adventure, it was an escape. My privilege: survival.
A flock of geese flying high up against the blue sky, squawking away in familiar harmony, roused me into that state of consciousness that lingers just before awakening from a restless slumber. The harsh slap of salty, surf laden water struck me with a ferocity that had me gasping into complete consciousness. My shoulders and arms felt sore, almost as if they didn’t belong to me anymore. How could they when I had spent more than forty eight hours clinging on a piece of driftwood in the middle of the bloody ocean!
Being stranded was just as it seems, downright difficult! I knew I might die and that's a lot to carry as I thought of my breath ending, it became stiller in my lungs.
All of time and space was the place I was in and it held harsh, foggy, miserable doom. I put my energy concentration into my limbs, I struck every forceful object with wild urgency. My heartbeat was obvious to me, which came as a surprise in the ocean there was much vicious and trumpetting noise. I felt I had little chance but all the anxiety could have proven otherwise that is why the story is worth telling, I thought to myself, that I must struggle onward, that is why. My precious instance carried me to dry land as the weather changed synomously with the light, and my own sense of danger.
That it was a new day bore the most significance. I must make haste through the vivid horizon, how quaint, as I thought of the others and I would treasure their every help, I did not yet want to become a historical landmark so instead my triumph was to become master of the receding depth, which I could sense and there it was, salvation. There, my mirth would not calm, there the land. Forward my own captaincy said. It was not an adventure, it was an escape. My privilege: survival.
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