That's it, she thought. This is how I am going to die. Tara was detachedly surprised at her own calm acceptance. She was miffed by her lack of anger, denial, fight, determination, lust for life. Down she went, arms raised, for the second time. Once more. We only ever get three. Tara saw the sun, the sky, the distant palm tree line, and, most of all, the water. Where before they had vibrant color, now they were shades of grey. There had been the sound of waves, calling, laughing, a whistle, the breeze, but now there was nothing. Up, arms outstretched. Time became tangible. Tara thought she should feel regret, sadness, sorrow, guilt, but she was fascinated instead by the new knowledge that a "moment" was real and could be touched and stretched and felt on the skin. I should say something nice. Down again, time's length shrinking into a width as wide as the ocean, and as deep.
(This was my try at "micro fiction", a.k.a. "flash fiction".)
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