“Nothing is permanent,” says the priestess.
“We only write our names in sand,” chants the crowd following her to the beach.
Young men gather sticks and write their names in the wet sand.
Then, they lay in small pits and bury each other up to their necks.
The priestess helps with the last man, and they wait for the tide to come in.
The waves get closer… closer… soaking the mens’ faces… some burst up from the sand and flee.
One more to go… and… did he drown?
No! He rises and stands!
Bow down, for he is your chief!
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Sand
By Jeff Hite
Bob watched the sand blow across the glass of his tiny shelter. Honestly it was only slightly larger than an environmental suit, and he was feeling more than a little claustrophobic. Three days had pasted since the ship had left him here. Two hours until the were due back. The seconds ticked by slowly. He needed them back soon because if he had to wait too much longer in the suit he would go crazy. If that happened he might be temped to crack the seal, run down the beach and play in the water with the bikini clad women.