I really like this week’s edition of Sunday Photo Fiction. As soon as I saw it, a sense of macabre came over me, almost to the point of dreading what I would have to write. I knew I might not want to face the path I would be traveling down, but some roads have to be trekked …
I wandered to the water’s edge and noticed them sitting there. They hadn’t been there 12 hours ago.
A fresh pile of rocks. A fresh body.
Our numbers on the island were dwindling. Faster, it seemed, than when we’d arrived. After the first couple deaths, we realized that burying a body under heavy rocks was a better way to keep the wild animals from digging it up. But the constant reminders of death were adding to the group’s already unsettled feeling that there was a psychopath among us.
No one had told me about the latest body. I wasn’t sure if I should take comfort from that or be even more concerned. Naturally, I didn’t know how this one had died. Had it been mutilated like the last couple? Or had it expired from natural causes — well, as natural as you get when you’re stranded on an island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.
I thought about removing the few rocks where the corpse’s head would be to see who it was and how it had expired. I decided against it. Maybe with this one it was better if I didn’t know the cause.
I’d be back here soon enough.