General

The pincers themselves were works of art, a soft brown colour, like coffee with too much cream. Along the edges were darker patches in perfect lines, just touches of a richer hue. The crab himself had darker legs and eye-stalks, his shell a mottle of the two shades. With pincers raised he made his side-ways scuttle across the cold morning sands until he felt it shift under his legs. In moments he was buried, lost under the swirling grains.