As he watched the squawking gulls swooping, diving, he wished that he too had the gift of flight and was able to launch his soul skyward and look down on what he had become, to maybe see where it all went so terribly wrong.
Today, atop the cliff sits a wooden cart wheel. That rotting wheel is all that remains of Arthur. Somebody must have brought it up from the rocks below, perhaps someone who knew him once; once upon a happier time.
This short piece was inspired by Momtheobscure's photograph at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers