For the second time, or the hundredth: across the sand walks God.
He looks no different than he had in that maelstrom of sea life and gore. He makes his way down the beach with the same quiet, steady pace. The sand shivers, magnetized, beneath his feet; unnatural colors lick up along his simple black clothing. He keeps walking.
Paul is dangerous. This is a fact he knows to his core, with a dispassionate sort of interest like a man taking inventory; and with the deeper thrill of a catching, unexpected pain. Paul is dangerous to him: that's the novelty, that's the miracle. It isn't coincidence. This is the fistfight. God is a piece on someone else's board.
He pushes through the ring of shivering shrapnel-bits with the calm resolution of a man wading into a river. At the center is a Paul-shaped thing with horrible eyes, curled small and wet and bony beneath the ripped skin of a tent.
no subject
He looks no different than he had in that maelstrom of sea life and gore. He makes his way down the beach with the same quiet, steady pace. The sand shivers, magnetized, beneath his feet; unnatural colors lick up along his simple black clothing. He keeps walking.
Paul is dangerous. This is a fact he knows to his core, with a dispassionate sort of interest like a man taking inventory; and with the deeper thrill of a catching, unexpected pain. Paul is dangerous to him: that's the novelty, that's the miracle. It isn't coincidence. This is the fistfight. God is a piece on someone else's board.
He pushes through the ring of shivering shrapnel-bits with the calm resolution of a man wading into a river. At the center is a Paul-shaped thing with horrible eyes, curled small and wet and bony beneath the ripped skin of a tent.