Light flares behind his eyelids, and the ground shakes, debris raining down like meteors. The explosions deafen him, muffling the sounds of battle. Senses overloaded, he folds in on himself, finding an island inside his mind.
She is there, lying naked on the hot, white sand, her tan skin glistening in the sun. She is always there, when he closes his eyes like this, her round breasts heavy, perfect teardrops that fill his hands…nipples pressed, like beads, against his palms. She moans as he squeezes and presses hard against her, straddled above her, his weight suspended on contracted thighs.
If he dies, he wants this to be his last thought. He closes his mind to the fear and breathes in…and out…slowly, mindfully willing his heartbeat to return to normal.
Even here…now…the thought of her stills him…brings him back to ground.
He opens his eyes, steels himself, raises his weapon…and fires.
I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to turn this one out. Motivating myself to write these days is difficult. Reading is easier…but then it’s that time of year, I believe. In my cycle, the darkness of Fall and Winter pull me inward, and I seek the comfort of filling my cup. This is a time of searching and consuming to prepare for the new year, when I typically begin to create again. Input before output, I suppose. And one cannot force the process.
So, I tread water…restfully floating until I am ready to swim again.