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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.
2 comments:
Oh, great little story! I like it!
Thanks so much! I'm really getting addicted to these little prompts - they're great writing exercises.
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