Earlier, he’d been dreaming up ad jingles. Oil: graffiti for the ocean, was his favorite. Another, Black stuff only a dead seagull could love, he liked while admitting it didn’t make any particular sense. There was a third suitable slogan, but it was now forgotten as he approached the shore.

He had decided to throw an M-80 into the oil-slicked Gulf tide. It was an experiment, you see, his dream to reinvent fireworks. A flaming, glowing tidewater, like a deranged jellyfish the size of Texas. He lit the bomb and off. Regrettably, Henry stood too close and the inky waves turned napalm and blown by wind crashed into him. Clothing and skin afire, Henry stumbled for the dunes and their cool sand, witty jingles forgotten. Only necessity remained.

Henry dove into sand and sobbed and screamed as his form again grew dark. He shuddered and moaned and breathed a sigh of relief – until his limbs again began smoldering. A mirage: the sand Henry dove into just a pale sugaring over jellyfish tar blobs reigniting his frenetic limbs.