The seashell stand, unmanned and unvisited, glittered dangerously in the sunlight, like a thousand tiny blades were for sale instead of gem-encrusted shells. There were no prices on the stand, no signs at all. Just glittering shells. The last person to take one was last seen walking into the ocean at dusk from the resort-front, shell clutched tightly in xir hand.
What's up! I'm a northern Canadian artist/writer. Poli sci student by education, acrylic painter by passion.