She turned her face to the sun, hoping to feel its warmth. There was a breeze in the air. She knew this from the swaying trees. Sighing, she walked towards the cliff; mesmerized by crashing waves and sea froth swirling each time the tide came in.
She remembered the taste of champagne bubbles, the light-headedness she would get from each effervescent sip. Closing her eyes, she prayed for those sensations she so desperately missed.
Shaking, she bent to touch the sand, to feel the fine grains between her fingers. A cry welled up inside her, erupting into a piercing wail as hands once flesh and bones were now diaphanous and elusive as vapor.
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Poet Rummager 
Ah, the mute sadness of the dead who forgot to remember to forget…
In some strange way it reminds me of a scene from James Herbert’s The Fog, where all the tourists on the beach suddenly begin to walk en-masse into the sea and drown themselves in the waves. They just walk and walk until the sea closes over them… For a schlock-horror writer with a great variety in quality of output, some of his novels are invested with a similar eerie quality of silent horror.
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Lol. Good one, T ❤
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