For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
photo by Alex Iby via Unsplash
The sand was ash, the water black, the air thick with oily soot, and no sun shone to light the waves’ dark path.
No breath of life warmed the chill, no sound broke into the sickly rhythm of the waves’ slap upon the shore.
The only smell was the all-pervading stench of corruption, the only splash of colour, the blood red robes of the creator, manipulator, annihilator, terminator.