Anna Hardy

The End of the World

He had tried looking at the horizon and not at his feet. In the distance, the beach was just sand, and the debris could be rocks. The sea meeting the shore with gentle, lapping waves, sparkling in the sun could almost be described as idyllic. That had ended when he tripped on something. Something soft and squishy. No matter how much he had told himself it was seaweed, or even a fish, a quick, uncontrollable look down had shown him a red streak on his bare foot that could only be blood.