Common

He wasn't dead. Not quite.

The crows in a circle of ever decreasing radius did not seem to have received the memo. The murder hopped closer, peering in at the creature. They grew bold when it seemed like too much time had passed between his ragged breaths of deep slumber. They studied the way his flesh rose between the splayed fingers of his ribcage with each one. Their curious jabs at his too-still limbs, asleep from blood loss due to their awkward position, did less to rouse him than the ever overbearing sun.

The angry heat of the midday sun drilled down onto his face, newly reveled by the retreating morning shadows. The rock that he had been caught upon when the last of his strength failed him had continued to shelter him through the morning. Bright rays punctured the peaceful numbness of exhausted slumber and brought conciousness swimming regretfully to the surface. Scarecrow remained laying for a moment, squinting against the brightness and blowing the wet sandy grit from his nostrils.

I am alive. The thought echoed in his mind, tinted with mild surprise and maybe even a mild hint of annoyance. He'd be certain that his condition had finally been the last nail in his coffin in the neverending swim to the common; and if he was being quite honest with himself, he'd been ready to call it a day

Granted, it had been a long, long day. Eleven years worth of days that seemed to drag on like purgatory. But it seemed the blissful night of death would continue to elude him today. A sigh rattled free of his body.

I could just stay here. The sand beneath him had leeched some of the warmth from his body, and now combined with the heat of the sun, it actually wasn't half bad. The pliant mixture had given way to accommodate the dramatic hollows of his emaciated body. Plus, the waves crashing behind him were sort of relaxing. Kind of defeats the purpose of coming here, he mused to himself, cracking one eye open to watch the crows jostle against each other.

In slow motion he reluctantly dragged his forelegs from their wild akimbo into some sort of order. Like most things lately, they felt disconnected from his body. He could see the drag marks his hooves left in the sand, but there was no sense of touch. At least, not until the pins and needles reached his limbs with vengeance.

Scarecrow hissed at the sudden sensation and pulled them tight to his chest, awkwardly rolling upward to place pressure on them. He had no idea of putting pressure on the offending appendages actually did anything to stem the biting pain or if it was just an old mare's tale, but he did it every time just the same. Eventually, when the pins and needles had dimmed to a dull ache, he lurched onto his hooves and shook, clearing some of the grainy debris from his his body. Only then did the lanky stallion look about for company, comfortable in assuming he wasn't the only thing washed up on shore.