A Hundred Fathoms



A hundred fathoms down, the sun looks like a ten-watt porch light.

The suit, which felt so heavy on the surface, is now a second skin–except the boots, which seem even heavier. You move slowly on the bottom,  breath loud in your ears as you clomp through the ooze like the giant in The Brave Little Tailor. Strange creatures dwell at that depth, pale and blind with bodies misshapen by the pressure.

You never forget possible death all around. The suit gets torn, the hose snags. A thousand things.

At a hundred fathoms, your blood would fizz like soda pop.


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