Old Rope
The old man watched his boat float out of sight. It bobbed quietly on the ripples made by the anchor he had flung at it. The frayed end of the old rope lay in a tide-pool in front of him, brushing his feet dangling in the water. He untied the rope from around his waist and coiled it. The tide was flowing out and he could walk back over the sand spit to the continent and home. Twice, the rope had failed. He left it there, coiled on the black rock. He left the anchor, with its half of the rope, at the bottom of the sea. The boat bobbed further away. His bare feet left little impression on the fine sand. He did not look back. He had no use for rope, old or new.
