Christie Marra
The dragonflies have almost carried me to shore when the stench of my shipmates wakes me. The green sea surrounds us, imprisoning our tiny boat; the sight of it makes me cry. I don’t know the day, or even the month. It could be June, or perhaps we passed into July floating on this water. I’m no longer sure. Daylight comes and goes, and some nights are bright as days, the white moon illuminating our eleven contorted bodies crammed into this rocking space, spotlighting faces that can’t rest even in sleep.
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