Disclaimer: Wilby Wonderful belongs to Dan McIvor and a bunch of Canadian film companies. I'm just being mean to Dan.

Notes: This double-and-a-bit drabble was written for ds_snippets's Rapid Fire Challenge, with the prompt fragment.

Feed(back) etcetera-cat.

Eleven days ago.

Shadows and moonlight. The wind in the trees, twined around the muted rush of waves on the pebbled beach. Hitched and labored breathing in the dark.

Flashes of red and blue and white light, mosaic patterns through the branches and leaves. Sirens, loud and implacable and cutting through the air like daggers. Shouted commands: harsh, unforgiving.

Nine days ago.

An envelope. Heavy with portent and somewhat worn at the edges, victim of the vagaries of the postal system. The address is printed on a label (even the font seems like a silent accusation) and the postmark is smudged illegible.

(Inside) An irreconcilable break down of the marriage, precipitated in main by—

Eleven hours, fourteen minutes ago.

Water burbling over rocks, combing trailing water weed into undulating sheets of emerald green. The supports of the bridge, sun warmed, strong and surprisingly slippery.

The sound of tires skidding on gravel.

Five hours, fifty two minutes ago.

Pebbles rough and pebbles smooth. Some with a faint fuzz of dried algae, some smooth and worn and veined with quartz. Cumulatively they are heavy.

Waves. This time a sight and sound experience, peaceful.

Voices.

One hour, one minute ago.

Embarrassment-that’s-not, to the soundtrack of a tinny radio. Quiet, uncertain words and the soft touch of skin to skin.

Fifty nine seconds ago.

The hissing scratch of rope, pulled tight and tied around the beam. Faint, protesting creaks from the chair. A few deep breaths, unnaturally loud.

A remembered touch.

Now.

A crack, a snap and a biting jerk up short.

A counterpoint dance of pain and oxygen deprivation.

A sense of regret, and then nothing much else at all.