A Dead Manís Chest
Aleathia Drehmer

Chad was keenly aware he was trapped behind the fallen rocks.† He had felt the rumble as he paddled deeper into the coastal cave.† The light from his helmet scattered fractals into the dark churning waters barely lighting up the carved walls.† There was history in here and maybe treasure too, but he had come for history.† But that seemed less important now.

It took him several minutes to right himself after the boulder broke from the ledge above the cave causing water displacement to smash his kayak against the cool pointed formations.† He had kept himself from curling under, just barely, but he had done it.† The light had been weak before the opening was sealed but now he was left with only a thin shining from his head lamp.† Chad allowed himself to panic for just a moment.† His throat was dry and the air now torrid despite the lack of sun. †

He had to find another opening before the batteries from the lamp ran dry.† Chad hated to defile nature, but considered in times of life or death, being ecologically sound mattered little.† He pulled the small can of spray paint from his pack and marked his starting point.† He prayed he would not paddle in circles.† He prayed for a ray of sunlight.† He contemplated all this praying as the stilled waters were cut by his hand hanging over the side.† He had come for history.† He realized he might be writing his own.

First published: August, 2010
comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com