She’s down there somewhere, among the broken Nehi bottles and water lilies. Trout saw her walk into the lake years ago when he was fishing off the dock, and by ‘fishing’ he means holding the rod Aunt Jancey handed him so she could fetch more Iron City beer.
Trout remembers the weight of the graphite handle in his hands. As he wound the reel, the girl from the next cabin walked out from the reeds on the other side of the lake.
Gwen. Trout kissed her once when no one was looking.
Long black curls blew over Gwen’s shoulders as she stepped forward until the water closed over her head, and he screamed until his voice cracked.
Now he dives, slicing through the slough of quillwort and mare’s-tail. If he stays under long enough where it is dark and silent, maybe this time he will find her.
The story above is a flash fiction for VisDare82. Click the link and go give Angela some love.