by Annie Bien Artha’s feet sank into sand, the tide swept waves forward, ocean swarmed his legs, stung his ankle wounds. He cringed, dreading the whip, shouts, lacerations. He sank torso deep. Stay still. No more fire, collapsing wood, temple crashing, shouts, running, no darted thigh, falling. He remembered the boy blowing into his trunk, whispering: “No more whips, marigold Read More