Flotsam washes ashore even after the storm has passed the island by, its waters calmed and sky cleared of heavy thunderheads, and scattered along the sand lay wave-bleached splinters that look, from afar, like bits of driftwood, but come closer and see their surfaces are much too hard, too smooth, the broken ends jagged in a way only bone breaks, and into each piece of weathered calcium is carved a single word




with tool sharper than any blade.


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