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Driftwood Tides sorry if you find this insulting, Sarah. there was just a little too much McCaffreyism there for my liking. by 'McCaffreyism', i mean angel-snowdrop-cutesy-unicorns-fluffy-ahhh-look-at-that!ism. and this isn't plagiarism; it's Intertextuality. The corpsetide is coming back in. I listen to the soothing sounds of tumbling limbs. I must watch my step, lest I fall under its rolling reason and join the softening bodies. I look down at the drifting clods, ignoring the skeletal grins and lack of conversation, idling wondering when the next weapons drop will occur. Hopefully soon, for this beach is getting crowded. I sigh, and shift my minigun to a more comfortable position. The sand is not ready yet, it needs to set some more. Then maybe I will be able to plant the missile launcher and make some more large, ragged gaps in the crowd. I used up my last batch years ago, and have not bothered to replace them. I have grown, with my old weapons, but in the same pattern. Endless loops proclaim my rut for everyone to see. But no one is here anymore, except for far too many passing bodies turning over and over in the grip of the shoreline waves. I know there used to be people here, once, but my memories fade, if they ever were, and the past takes on a Leni-Riefenstahl-cinematic glow. Now is a cacophony of slipping, wet flesh, going in, going out, and the senseless chatter of the exposed broken bone-ends. I wish they would erode soon. The comforting shriek of falling shells, and the squelshy addition to the driftwood sea comforts me. The silence is more appealing. I stumble over a small, plastic mine. They are littered everywhere. Bored, I peer into it to see what I am missing this time. Inside the mine there are two chemicals sitting, waiting to combine and be something else, something more destructive, awakened potential. Restlessly, I kick sand over the mine, hopeful that someone less wary will step on it and bring it to life. I shuffle around the mine to erase the pattern of steps that lead up to it. I have walked on the shoreline. My eyes find it hard, jumping from body to body, like a searchlight that doesn't like what it's highlighting. When the shells fall, you get torn up, and spit back. You get much time to contemplate your mistakes while you bleed. When the concrete is ready - sand, lime and blood - I think I will try again. That is what I keep telling myself. When the sand is ready. nikolai --- yeah, just finished re-reading that Michael Herr book

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