Bloody Cruel Stockings — Foul Air

Greg Prince
5 min readNov 24, 2018

Morning surprises and terrifying assumptions.

Weekend mornings are sacred in my routine life. Getting away from the screens on my desk at home is difficult. I make it a point to walk down to the beach Saturday and Sunday morning.

Morning mist clears my head
wake from fantastic dreams, can’t explain;
fill my world with thoughts of death,
take a stroll to clear the dread.

Living in Flagler Beach, Florida is a sweet reward. Most mornings the sun rising over the horizon and shattering the air is a brief slice of scintillating quiet unmatched by any art humans can produce.

At roughly 5 am I don my favorite socks, but fully naked otherwise, step onto my porch, breathe in the salty air, and make my way across A1A to the sand dunes leading down to the Atlantic ocean.

A1A is a busy State 2 lane highway here during the day but is a surprisingly empty and desolate road at 5 am.

I wear these thick grey socks that reach up to my knees to protect my feet from the rough asphalt of the street and the sharp shells in the sand leading to the tides.

The cool morning beach air pricks my body in a million goosebumps. That brisk sensation is my favorite wake-up. Coffee, of course, is a close second but that comes after I return from the beach.

It’s a refreshing September, Saturday morning.

Hurricane Irma swept through a week ago. Part of A1A was cracked and washed away during the storm. Crews will be busy repairing sections of the road in an hour.

I decided to ride the storm out and stayed in my house across from the beach. My neighbors said I was crazy but a touch of fortune smiled upon me and I had no damage.

Looking up and down the beach is shocking and saddens me at the damage Irma unleashed.

The first tide washes over my socks. It’s wet and cold. Shivers tremble up my legs and spread biting all the way to my thoughts.

Shouting Angry Face Woman from Pixabay

The sight is screaming me into silent shock!

Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.