Too Late for Sorrow

by Robert Clay

I can feel the tiredness now, creeping up like a cat on the hunt. The blood is puddling out, making the grimy wooden floor look like polished mahogany. The brain, frantically trying to survive, is shutting down systems in order to preserve itself. It’s true I think, you do die from the feet up. I want to say I’m sorry to all those I’ve put down this route, all those faces flying by like the pages of a book you don’t want to read. But the fixed glazed expressions of the dead are not in the mood for my remorse, instead they grin with skull teeth and welcome me to their world.


Robert Clay is a Seafarer now stranded on land. He lives in Cornwall in the UK.