Trapped, stash, hand, maze, land, chatter, wreck, last, crawl, back, armed, saw
As he crawled along the underbrush, the maze of brambles scraped his sunburnt skin. His back still bore the scars of the lashing he received when he first became trapped in this hellhole. His hand had calluses along the palm, evidence of his hard labor. It was a shipwreck that brought him here, what was it? Last year? He remembered the ocean rising above his small vessel, armed with ten-foot waves that crashed down upon the deck. He had tried to stash his valuables in his pockets, knowing he would capsize. Before being tossed into the raging waters he saw a speck of land on the horizon. He had known this was his only hope for survival. And now, trying to escape, all he could hear is the chatter of the other prisoners as they sit upon dirt floors, in the dark, waiting for someone to save them.
©2020 CBialczak Fiction
Written for the Sunday Whirl: https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2020/03/29/wordle-449/