my writing corner

waves wash over me, cold and uncaring. they beat me back, yank me every which way. who knows which way is up? i don't know why i try to save myself anymore. it's too cold to care, and there isn't anything left for me here. not a single thing left. it was over before it bagan, and i hadn't realized that until now. but with this being where i am left to die there isn't much more to realize... except to realize that this could be my very last thought....

an almost silent bounce of a tennis ball as it bounces once, twice... it flies up high, a good two feet or more, with not even a whistle of air as it passes through it before - SMACK! it hits a racket, whipping it over the net and bounces in the square catty-corner from the server. it spikes up, flying. a racket swings, connecting with the neon yellow meteor, shooting it back to the other side of the court, buried deep in the far corner; the first player reaches, runs, stretches, but with the first bounce, the ball is already out, bouncing again within seconds, before he could have gotten to the ball. a scream of exhaultation, a groan of frustration float over the court, game over. the final points were played, the players now spent.