Heaving Wrath

[MadisonSinkingSands]

By Madison Sloane


Morgan rubbed her eyes and brushed her hair away from her face. She hadn’t slept much — hope that a search party would come find her made it difficult to sleep under the stars. As last night fell, enveloping the trail in darkness, Morgan found a small clearing off the main path where she decided to hunker down for the night. She wrapped herself in her jacket, using her backpack as a makeshift pillow, and tried to calm her racing thoughts.


The night was long and restless, the sounds of the jungle unfamiliar and unsettling. The darkness seemed to press in on her from all sides – broken only by the unsettling rustle of leaves or distant unrecognizable howl sending shivers down her spine.


As the sun illuminated the morning fog, Morgan realized she would probably need to make her own way back.


A head count hadn’t been taken on the tourist bus out to the waterfall trail. Since Morgan was traveling solo, who would even know she was gone?


12% battery left, Morgan’s iPhone read. It probably burned a few percent turning back on. No signal and dead air when she tried an SOS call.


There were extensive trails heading back to the visitors’ center. It would take a day or so to hike there. With only three fourths left in her water bottle, Morgan figured she would need to start making her way back. Otherwise she’d risk running out of water waiting for the next bus of tourists — whenever that might be.


The trek was feasible but not ideal. The trails were long dilapidated. Indigenous snakes and God knows what could’ve repopulated the area since humans stopped traversing there.
Small mudslides triggered by the monsoon season raised more potential hazards in Morgan’s mind. Dead ends. Perhaps mud fields she’d need to slog through; sapping her of dwindling energy. Worst case scenario she’d become mired in a mud pit — and stranded to contend with the elements.


Still though, she felt her odds were better taking the hike of faith. She powered her phone off once more, deciding she would only turn it back on if and when she was confident she was close enough to try making another distress call.


Morgan figured she would hike until the heat peaked and rest until it cooled down. After that, she’d continue into the late afternoon and early evening before stopping again at nightfall. Rinse and repeat until she was out of this open air tropical prison she found herself in.


She rose to her feet. She stood at 5’6” with wavy blonde hair stopping an inch or so above her shoulders. She was pretty. At 37 years old, years of overtime shifts at the seaside resort back home had etched wisdom into the sides of her gray eyes.


She wore a heather gray tank, khaki shorts and hiking boots with cuffed socks over the boot tops. She slid her phone into the patterned bottom section of her backpack and slung it back on.


“Well, this is an adventure,” she sighed aloud to herself. She checked her watch — 6:37a.m.


The towering trees and relentless underbrush seemed to whisper accusations, reminding her of the choices that had led her here. She had left behind a life stained with mistakes, fleeing to this remote paradise in search of escape, but now, lost and alone, she wondered if this dilapidated land was meant to be her penance; a punishment for sins she hadn’t yet fully atoned for.


Morgan pushed through the thick underbrush, the jungle closing in around her with every step. The trail, once a path for adventurers like herself, was now a forgotten relic, swallowed by the wild after years of neglect. Vines twisted around her ankles, and branches tugged at her clothes as if trying to pull her back. The air was thick with humidity, every breath heavy with the scent of earth and decay. The sun, barely visible through the dense canopy, cast a dim, greenish light that only deepened the sense of isolation.


Hours passed as she navigated the overgrown trail, her progress slow and grueling. Sweat dripped from her brow, and her legs burned with the effort of pushing through the tangled foliage. The sound of distant birds and insects filled the silence, their calls a constant reminder of how alone she was in this vast, untamed wilderness. Every now and then, she would stumble over a hidden root or slip on a patch of moss, but she pressed on, driven by a vague hope that civilization lay somewhere ahead.


Finally, as she rounded a bend in the trail, the trees began to thin, and the ground beneath her feet became softer, less tangled with roots and debris. Ahead, the jungle opened up into a sandy clearing, a stark contrast to the oppressive greenery that had surrounded her for hours. Morgan paused at the edge, taking in the sight of the open space, its golden sand a welcome reprieve from the suffocating jungle. She stepped forward, relieved to be free of the thick underbrush, unaware of the danger that lurked just beneath the surface.


In the heart of the clearing, a crystal-clear stream wound its way lazily through the sand, its gentle murmur adding a soothing rhythm to the tranquil scene. Brightly colored birds darted above, their vibrant feathers standing out against the lush green of the surrounding jungle.
Morgan paused to take in the serenity of the sandy clearing, feeling a rare sense of calm settle over her. But beneath the surface, the sand was shifting with each of her steps, sending unseen ripples through the layers below—collapsing hidden voids, dislodging buried debris, and setting in motion a silent danger that lurked just out of sight.


With every step, Morgan noticed the sand beneath her hiking boots giving way just a little more than before. A sense of unease began to creep in as the ground softened underfoot, but she pressed on, hoping it was just her imagination. Then, without warning, she felt herself sinking. A flash of panic shot through her mind, and the gritty sensation of sand, peat, and clay creeping up her legs confirmed her worst fear—quicksand.


As Morgan’s heart pounded with fear, she scanned the clearing desperately for an escape. But the more she fought against the quicksand, the faster it seemed to pull her under. Realizing her panic was only making things worse, she forced herself to calm down. She’d faced quicksand before, during a hike in Utah. Back then, she had simply leaned back, pulled her legs free, and crawled to solid ground just a few feet away. She decided to try the same maneuver now. Taking a deep breath, she focused on moving slowly and deliberately.


But this time, something was different. As she leaned back, the quicksand responded with a soft, unsettling belch, as if the earth beneath her had momentarily collapsed. She felt her legs drop suddenly, as if something far below had given way, creating a brief but powerful suction that pulled her down into an upright position.


“What the hell?!” she gasped, fear tightening its grip on her as she realized the danger was far worse than she had anticipated. The sand was hot and heavy, clinging to her skin with a wet, suffocating grip. It made intense, squelching sounds as it enveloped her legs, quieting only as it settled around her thighs. The weight of it pressed down on her, making every movement a struggle.


Her eyes darted around the clearing, searching frantically for something—anything—she could use to pull herself out. Her gaze landed on a fallen vine just within reach, offering a glimmer of hope. Fueled by adrenaline, she stretched out her arm and grasped the vine, feeling its damp, slimy surface against her fingers. Moss clung to it, a reminder of the relentless humidity that had weakened its once sturdy fibers.


As she pulled on the vine with all her strength, it groaned under the strain, the sound echoing through the clearing like a warning. The vine, once a lifeline for the towering tree above, had long since rotted, its strength compromised by time and the harsh jungle climate. With a sharp crack, it broke loose from the tree, collapsing onto the surface of the quicksand with a dull thud.


As the vine snapped and fell uselessly to the ground, the quicksand seemed to seize the opportunity, surging up toward Morgan’s waist with a slow, relentless determination. The sand was no longer just a passive substance—it felt alive, as though it were a creature eagerly dragging her deeper into its grasp. The once firm ground was now a hot, wet trap, growing heavier with each passing moment, pulling her down with a crushing weight that left her struggling for breath.


The body of sinking sand tightened its hold, its hot surface transforming into a suffocating weight that pressed against her with an unyielding force. It clung to her skin, dragging her down with a deceptive gentleness that masked its true power. Morgan felt the crushing pressure building around her, turning even the slightest movement into a battle against the relentless, encroaching mass.


The sand whispered as it shifted, a soft, insidious sound that made her hair stand up. It was as if the quicksand was taunting her, reminding her of its dominance and her vulnerability trapped within its grasp.


Despite the rising fear threatening to overwhelm her, Morgan fought to stay calm, resisting the sinking feeling both in her chest and beneath her feet. The quaking patch of sand and muck undulated slightly as she tried to remain still. But even in her stillness, the gold and brown mass crept higher, stopping just below her navel.


With her arms level with her chest, she carefully began to unsling her backpack, hoping to retrieve her phone without further disturbing the hungry sands. Moving as slowly as possible, she placed the pack gently on the surface, gingerly unzipping the small compartment where her phone was stored. But even that subtle motion caused the wet sand to rise, inching up her abdomen and cresting her belly button.


Finally, her fingers closed around the familiar shape of her phone. She moved cautiously, avoiding any sudden movements that might hasten her descent into the stifling sand. Her heart raced as she held down the power button, watching the screen as the logo flickered to life. The loading wheel began to spin.


She held her breath, hoping she had made it far enough to get a signal for a distress call. But what if the battery didn’t last long enough? Hope and despair churned within her like a storm, conflicting thoughts swirling as she stared at the screen. The loading wheel seemed to spin in slow motion, each rotation feeling like a gamble with her life on the line.


But the signal bars remained stubbornly absent, mocking her with their lack of progress. As dread settled in the pit of her stomach, Morgan realized that her last connection to the outside world was slipping away.


Then, as if to extinguish her last flicker of hope, the screen dimmed, the battery icon flashing a warning before the phone went dark in her hand. The sting of defeat settled in as she understood that her chance at rescue had vanished along with the dying light of her phone.


As Morgan held the lifeless phone in her trembling hands, the grim reality of her situation pressed heavily against her chest—not just the suffocating sand, but the weight of utter isolation. She let her arm fall to her side, the device slipping from her grasp and landing softly on the wet sand beside her.


Her mind, seeking refuge from the present horror, began to drift. Memories bubbled up unbidden—laughter shared with friends now lost, the cold morning air of her last autumn back home, the comforting murmur of her favorite coffee shop. These snippets of a life she once knew seemed distant, almost as if belonging to someone else. As she sank deeper into her thoughts, the quicksand continued its relentless assault, creeping up her body with a slow, inexorable certainty.


The sand, now reaching her chest, pressed against her with a warm, damp weight, each grain seemingly intent on pulling her further down. The sensation was chillingly methodical, as if the quicksand was patiently erasing her, layer by layer.


Caught between the past and the pressing danger of the present, Morgan’s breathing became shallow, the sand constricting around her like a snake. The quicksand tightened around her with each inhale. The warm, thick mass molded to her form, encasing her in a gritty embrace that threatened to swallow her whole.


In this desperate moment, the boundary between the mental escape of her memories and the physical entrapment by the quicksand blurred. Morgan was painfully aware of every grain against her skin, each one a reminder of her perilous state, yet her mind continued to wander through the remnants of a life that now seemed as if it could slip away as easily as sand through her fingers.


Morgan had carved out a successful career as the food and beverage manager at a resort in Ocean City, Maryland. Her days were filled with the buzz of orders, the clinking of glasses, and the symphony of voices that came with catering to hundreds of guests. But her nights, oh, her nights were a different story—a chaotic tangle of loneliness, regret, and a longing for something more.


James had been a ghost from her past, a man whose memory had lingered long after their youthful affair had fizzled out. When he reappeared in her life, she had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Their affair had started innocently enough—shared glances, lingering touches—but soon, the passion of their old flame reignited. Morgan had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that this time it would be different. But James, ever the pragmatic one, had no intentions of reigniting anything beyond the physical. His heart belonged to Sarah, a sweet woman who had no idea of the betrayal that stalked their relationship.


After one particularly lonely night, Morgan found herself in the arms of another—a fleeting fling from her college days. It was an attempt to fill the void that James had left, a void that only seemed to deepen with each passing day. The night was a blur of desperate touches and empty words, and when it was over, she felt more alone than ever. Little did she know that this impulsive act would lead to consequences far beyond the physical. An infection, silently contracted, became the catalyst for the unraveling of her life.


Days later, James invited her to coffee. Morgan knew what was coming—their affair had run its course, and he was ready to move on, to marry Sarah and leave their sordid past behind. They met at a small café where nobody they knew frequented. James tried to be kind, but his words cut deep. He was leaving her behind, and there was no going back.


But as they spoke, the tension between them shifted, morphed into something raw and undeniable. It was as if they were both trying to hold on to something that had already slipped through their fingers. And so, one last time, they fell into bed. The intimacy was bittersweet, a closure to a past that had no place in their futures.


When James left Morgan’s apartment that morning, they both knew it was truly over. But fate had other plans. The infection Morgan had unknowingly contracted spread to James, and soon after, Sarah too. The fuse was lit when Morgan received a text from her college fling stating his test results. Morgan got tested that day and received positive results.


Soon after the delicate web of lies was blown apart and Morgan had unwittingly thrown the grenade. Sarah, devastated and betrayed, sought treatment. The future of her marriage to James was left in doubt.


Morgan, with her family all the way up in upstate Pennsylvania, found herself utterly alone. Fewer and fewer people were waiting for her after shift to walk out to their cars together. People at the bar she was a regular began cutting conversations short. She stopped getting invites. The once-bustling resort felt like a prison, the walls closing in around her.


Desperate to escape the whispers and judgment, she sought vacation spots far away. She remembered her grandfather had been wounded during the war — and convalesced at a makeshift hospital in the small archipelago nation of Taganau.


With its pristine beaches, crystal-clear waters, and lush tropical forests, Taganau beckoned to her weary soul like a siren's call. She booked a one-way ticket; deciding to figure out her return later. She had plenty of vacation saved up anyhow.


As the relentless grip of the quicksand continued to claim more of Morgan, she spotted a potential lifeline—a stump of a fallen tree lying just at the edge of the sandy trap. Her backpack, equipped with sturdy shoulder straps, suddenly seemed like it could be her escape tool. But as she weighed her options, a heavy blanket of guilt draped over her.


Back home, her life was a mess of broken relationships and lost friendships, a world where she felt increasingly isolated and unwelcome. The thought of returning to such a place brought a hollow feeling to her chest. On the brink of a literal and metaphorical sinkhole, Morgan questioned the value of her own survival.


Physically drained and emotionally overwhelmed, she allowed her eyelids to flutter shut, her body sagging further into the quicksand’s embrace. As she drifted toward sleep, the warm, wet sand enveloped her more completely, its touch almost soothing in its constancy. The sand clung to her skin, heavy and invasive, yet strangely comforting as it rose up her body.


In this vulnerable state, between waking and sleeping, Morgan felt an eerie sense of peace. The forest sounds blurred into a distant hum, the rustle of leaves and the call of animals becoming a lullaby that mingled with the squelching rhythm of the sand. The warmth of the quicksand, mixed with the humidity of the jungle air, wrapped around her like a thick, damp blanket, lulling her deeper into a resigned slumber.


As sleep claimed her, the troubles of the world she knew seemed to fade away, replaced by a dark, engulfing quiet. The last conscious thought that flickered through her weary mind was a silent surrender to whatever fate lay ahead, her body sinking softly, inexorably deeper into the bed of shifting sand and muck.


In the depths of her entrapment, Morgan’s consciousness began to slip from the grim reality of the quicksand, spiraling into a dream-like state. Her mind, desperate for escape, conjured an out-of-body experience. It was suddenly night time. She found herself looking down from above, her perspective elevated as if perched on the bough of a towering tree nearby. From this height, she saw herself below, shoulders deep in the clutches of the quicksand, illuminated eerily by a circle of torches that flickered with a sinister, sensual glow.


The torches cast long, dancing shadows across the pit, throwing both light and darkness over her sinking form. Their flames crackled and hissed, breaking the night’s silence with whispers that sounded like an accusatory murmur. It was as if each torch represented a member of an unseen tribunal, gathered to judge her for her past misdeeds and current predicament. The light from the flames painted her in a haunting tableau of orange and black, emphasizing the desperation etched across her features, now frozen in the stillness of the quicksand.


Morgan, from her aerial view, felt a surreal detachment as she watched herself bound by the sand. The scene was macabre yet mesmerizing, her body slowly being consumed by the earth as if it were an offering to some ancient, unforgiving deity. The contrast between the brilliant torchlight and the moonlit sand that threatened to swallow her whole painted a picture of a woman caught between two worlds—one of fiery judgment and one of engulfing darkness.


This spectral tribunal seemed to quietly deliberate her fate with each flicker of the flames. As the quicksand rolled over her shoulders, threatening to silence her pleas and struggles forever, the dream Morgan felt an overwhelming sense of doom mixed with an inexplicable calm. It was as though this judgment, whether real or imagined, was something she had been moving toward all along, an inevitable conclusion to the paths she had chosen. In this strange, twilight space between dreaming and waking, Morgan confronted her life’s turmoil and the very real possibility that she might never escape the physical or metaphorical mires she had wandered into.


As Morgan grappled with her eerie dream state, she sensed an ominous shift beneath her. Perhaps it was a gas pocket erupting or tangled debris finally coming loose—whatever the cause, the sand below her suddenly belched, a disturbing sound that signaled the end of her fleeting stability.
The ground beneath her seemed to dissolve, and Morgan felt herself sinking with terrifying speed, the quicksand eagerly swallowing her whole.


“No, this isn’t fair,” she thought, panic and anger flashing in her eyes as she was pulled further down. A wave of bitter resentment surged through her, cursing the universe for its overzealous punishment.


Her mind whirled with memories of the missteps that had led her here, the minor indiscretions that now seemed to warrant an cruel retribution. The punishment, she thought, was absurdly severe; quicksand was a fate for monumental sins, not her trivial errors.


As the sand continued its relentless advance, taking more of her body with each passing second, Morgan’s frustration boiled over. She cursed her luck, her choices, and the cruel irony of it all.


Struggling against the suffocating pull of the quicksand, she was consumed by a mix of rage and helplessness. It felt as though the earth itself had betrayed her, its weight amplifying the oppressive force of the encroaching sand.


In a fleeting moment of clarity amid the chaos, Morgan pondered if perhaps this was a brutal lesson she was meant to learn, a stark reminder of her actions’ consequences. Yet, the frustration over the perceived excessiveness of her punishment lingered, leaving a bitter taste as she continued to sink deeper into the dream’s abyss.


Her actions became frantic and desperate as she thrashed angrily within the quicksand. Her arms flailed, clawing at the enveloping sand in vain attempts to free herself. Each movement, however, only seemed to drag her deeper into the merciless clutches of the quicksand, fueling her frustration even more.


Her legs kicked out in a frenzied, desperate dance, seeking solid ground that was nowhere to be found. Each futile kick only caused her to sink further, the quicksand appearing to mock her every effort. The overwhelming sense of helplessness only intensified her fury, her frustrated cries becoming muffled by the ever-rising sand.


Tears of frustration and defeat welled in her eyes, blending with the gritty sand that adhered to her skin. The sheer unfairness of her situation weighed heavily on her, driving her to combat the inevitable with every ounce of strength she could muster. But with each desperate moment, the futility of her struggle became more evident, the quicksand showing no mercy in its relentless grip, slowly engulfing her in the depths of her nightmarish vision.


As Morgan’s desperation peaked, the quicksand, ever unyielding and oppressive, crept higher, reaching her chin. Her breathing quickened, heart pounding in her ears, the cool, grainy sand brushing against her cheeks.


As the quicksand crept inexorably higher, Morgan’s arms were stretched upward, reaching desperately above her head. Her hands clawed at the air, grasping for a lifeline that wasn’t there, fingers splaying in search of something, anything, to hold onto.


Amidst this frantic struggle, a profound realization dawned on Morgan. Images of a possible future—a new beginning in a different city, a chance to make amends and rebuild—flashed through her mind. The thought that she might have been able to start anew, to atone for her past and forge a new path, became achingly clear. Yet, as she felt the quicksand claim her, this vision of redemption seemed cruelly snatched away. She was being robbed not just of her breath, but of her potential redemption and a future unburdened by her past mistakes.


The sand lake then poised to finally erase her existence between its coarse waves. Through eyes wide with panic, Morgan took in one last look at the darkening sky above, her head slowly slipped beneath the surface, the quicksand sealing over her with a soft, suffocating embrace.


Her arms continued their frantic search before slipping under too but continued to flail and thrash in the dense, muffled world of the quicksand. Each movement was a futile attempt to escape, her palms pushing against nothingness, her fingers curling in vain. The quicksand around her quaked violently with her struggles, each motion causing it to churn and bubble, as if reacting to her desperation. Her movements were frantic, a silent, frenzied ballet of desperation as she fought against the viscous trap. Each motion sent vibrations through the thick, enveloping sand, disturbing its eerie calm.


But as her energy waned and her movements slowed, the quicksand began to settle. Morgan figured at some point, she would involuntarily inhale – taking the quicksand into her mouth and down her throat before it released itself deep within her chest.


Morgan envisioned herself deep below the surface as the quicksand seeped into her and like she was made of paper. Then, she saw herself implode; her bones suspended into the mass before disintegrating and becoming one with the sands pulverizing them.


Eventually, the pit settled into an eerie tranquility, reflecting nothing of the desperate battle that had just taken place. Morgan was finally washed away into the shifting hot sand without a trace. Anonymously. Helplessly. Uselessly. The clearing returned to a deceptive peace, masking the profound loss of what might have been—a second chance Morgan would now never have.


Morgan jolted awake, her heart pounding furiously as the remnants of her dream clung to her consciousness. The harsh reality quickly set in—she was indeed shoulder-deep in quicksand. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the clearing, the light dimming as it filtered through the dense canopy above. The eerie similarity between her dream and her current predicament sent a shiver down her spine as night approached.


As she steadied her breathing, a vivid vision unfolded in her mind. She saw herself starting anew in a different city, a place where the mistakes of her past were just distant memories. She imagined writing letters of amends to everyone who had shunned her, picturing each word of apology and hope. Sarah’s letter was the most detailed and filled with remorse. This vision of a possible future filled her with a newfound resolve.


Determined not to let that future slip away as it had in her dream, Morgan glanced at the fallen tree stump she had dismissed earlier as a potential aid.


“This is my only chance,” she thought, summoning every ounce of strength and courage left in her. With great effort, she maneuvered her backpack in front of her, pulling out the strap with steady, determined hands. She twisted her torso as much as the quicksand would allow and flung the strap toward the stump.


To her relief, the strap caught, wrapping securely around the stump. Heart racing with hope, Morgan began to pull herself out, hand over hand, the strap groaning under her weight. She moved slowly, deliberately, knowing any sudden movement could worsen her situation. Inch by inch, she felt herself rise against the pull of the quicksand.


Just as she felt a surge of hope, thinking she might actually escape, the strap’s swivel broke with a sharp snap. Instantly, her body dropped, the quicksand swallowing her up to her neck in a heart-stopping moment. Panic gripped her as she realized she was now in a deeper predicament, with the quicksand hot and suffocating around her neck, threatening to claim her entirely.


Morgan’s breaths became shallow, her mind racing for solutions as she fought the urge to struggle violently, knowing that would only send her wailing into the depths below. The broken strap floated mockingly in front of her, a cruel reminder of her failed escape attempt. Now, more than ever, she knew she had to find a way out—not just to survive, but to live the life she had envisioned, to make those amends, and to start anew. Her resolve hardened, she prepared to make one last effort to free herself from the quicksand’s deadly grip.


Morgan’s heart thudded against her chest as she carefully turned the backpack around to access the remaining shoulder strap. Each movement was agonizingly slow as she loosened the strap with sand-speckled fingers. The suspense was palpable—the entire outcome hinged on this single, frail piece of equipment. If this strap failed, she knew there would be no more chances. Her breaths were shallow, each one a struggle against the rising quicksand that now threatened to swallow her completely.


With painstaking care, she freed the strap and, with a flick of her wrist born of desperation, tossed it toward the stump. The strap sailed through the air, landing over the stump with a thud that sounded like salvation. She quickly pulled it tight, securing it around the wood.


Gripping the strap with both hands, Morgan began to pull herself toward the stump, her arms burning with the effort. Each tug brought her incrementally closer to freedom, her body gradually rising from the quicksand’s clutches. Her movements were desperate but controlled, knowing that any misstep could send her sliding back into the depths.


As she neared the stump, her fingers brushed against a thick root protruding from the ground. Grasping it with her hand, she used it to pull herself even closer, her other hand still clutching the strap tightly. Every muscle in her body strained as she fought for every inch, her resolve hardened by the vision of the life she still hoped to live.


Just then, over the sound of her labored breathing and the squelch of the quicksand, a distant noise caught her attention—the unmistakable beating of helicopter rotors. The sound grew louder, a sign that help was perhaps on its way. Energized by this new hope, Morgan summoned her remaining strength, pulling herself with renewed vigor.


She dragged her body closer to the edge of the quicksand pit, her fingers digging into the muddy ground and the sturdy root. The helicopter’s approach was now a roaring promise of rescue, each beat of the rotors syncing with the pounding of her heart. As the sound enveloped her, Morgan focused on that noise, letting it fuel her final, frantic efforts to escape the deadly grip of the quicksand.


With a final, herculean effort, Morgan pulled herself up and over the rim of the quicksand pit. Her arms, pushed to their limits, trembled under the strain, but the sight of solid ground beneath her was a powerful motivator. As her upper body cleared the edge, she used every ounce of energy left to drag the rest of her legs out of the greedy sand. The sand yielded reluctantly, releasing her with a wet, sucking sound.


Exhausted beyond measure, Morgan collapsed on the firm, sandy edge of the pit. Her breathing was heavy, ragged from the ordeal, but relief washed over her in a powerful wave. As she lay there, her chest heaving, the distant sound of rotors grew louder, morphing into the unmistakable presence. A yellow Taganese Coast Guard helicopter emerged into the open sky above the clearing – its bright color stark against the dimming sky.


A laugh, half relief and half disbelief, escaped Morgan’s lips as she waved weakly at the aircraft. Her hand moved back and forth in the air, a signal that she was alive, that she had survived. The chopper adjusted its course, coming to a hover directly above her. The downwash from its rotors sent leaves and small debris scattering around the clearing, a whirlwind of nature stirred up by the wings of her rescuers.


As the reality of her rescue sank in, Morgan let her arm fall to the sand beside her, her laughter fading into quiet, deep breaths. She closed her eyes, the sound of the helicopter like a lullaby, soothing her frayed nerves. Laying there, on the edge of the pit that had almost claimed her life, Morgan found a moment of peace, her mind finally still after the harrowing struggle. The warmth of the setting sun and the cool breeze generated by the hovering aircraft blended around her.


…


Morgan’s return to Ocean City had been a subdued affair. The town, with its familiar sights and sounds, now carried a bittersweet tang of memories best left behind. She had come back a changed woman – the crucible of Taganau making her stronger.


As the weeks passed, the responses to her letters trickled in; some of her friends and coworkers reached out, their words warm, if cautious. It was a relief, yet it underscored the transient nature of her stay.


The news of Sarah and James’s marriage had spread quickly. Morgan had kept her distance, understanding all too well the awkwardness her presence could invoke. Sarah’s decision to forgive James but remain wary of Morgan was expected, yet it stung. It confirmed what Morgan had felt deep down: it was time to move on.


Her new job in hotel opersations in Washington DC was a fresh start and a chance to build on her previous successes. But before she could embrace this new beginning, there was one last piece of unfinished business—Sarah.


On a cool, overcast morning, Morgan drove to Sarah’s house. The quiet streets of Ocean City seemed to watch as she parked near the familiar driveway. With a deep, steadying breath, she took out the envelope prepared the night before. It was thin yet heavy with the weight of words of contemplation, regret, and respect she had carefully chosen. She slipped the envelope into Sarah’s mailbox—a final acknowledgment and farewell.


As she walked back to her car, a sense of closure settled over her. She didn’t expect forgiveness nor reconciliation; it was enough to speak her truth and wish Sarah well. Morgan glanced back once, a silent goodbye to a chapter of her life that was finally, irrevocably closed.


She climbed into her blue hatchback, the backseat filled with boxes and bags. As she started the engine, a light drizzle began to fall, the windshield wipers dragging across the glass in a slow, rhythmic motion. Morgan pulled away from the curb, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, ready for the challenges and opportunities that awaited her in the bustling heart of DC. The rearview mirror reflected Ocean City fading into the distance, a chapter concluded as a new one eagerly awaited its turn to unfold.

[quagmire_uk]

Wow, that was intense!

Very long and detailed... Perhaps a little too long, as I admit I did start to skim ahead at some points. I can't fault any particular aspect of it, it was just especially long for a story that was one quicksand scene. I think perhaps the flashbacks and dreams and so-on hurt the pacing. But bare in mind that "it's very long" and "has pacing issues" are pretty minor criticisms. Loads of good stuff here.

[65sinking]

I've become a fan of your writing, and this was a beautiful read.

Personally, I would move Morgan's backstory with James to somewhere closer to the front; reading about her sinking, and then transitioning to her back in Ocean City, felt a bit disruptive. But that's just me.

I know you've been doing more vignettes lately that are more open-ended, but I'd love to see more full-length stories like this one.