Once again, I gave Flash! Friday something old, something new. This week, we had to include a beach, and this photo:
So first came "The Boy With The Hazel Eyes."
Agata
never forgot the boy with the hazel eyes. He introduced himself with
a cannonball that splashed water in her face. She knew then it would
some day be love. That summer at her family's cottage on Lake
Scharmützel was the true beginning of her life.
Saying
goodbye tasted like poison.
He
wrote every week. When he'd send a photograph, she soared. But once
Hitler's serpent tongue stated seducing the country, his letters
became less frequent. Too soon, they stopped altogether.
Then
the monsters with machine guns came to their door. Their new home
embraced them with a ring of razor wire.
Still,
she never forgot the boy with the hazel eyes. Memories of the splash
of water, the hidden kisses, were all that kept her alive. Agata held
out hope she would see him again.
Two
weeks after her father died, Agata's prayer was answered.
Immediately, she wished Fate had ignored her.
Gone
were the crisp brown shirt and black shorts from the photos. In their
place clung the uniform of death. He didn't see her, or he pretended
not to. For this small favor, she was grateful.
When
the war ended, she walked out the gates alone.
And
she never could forget the boy with the hazel eyes.
Then I dusted off one I wrote for a Janet Reid contest last November, though I had to double it. (Like that's ever a problem for me.)
And here is "Undercurrents."
Most
family traditions grow from joy. Some, though, are born of pain.
This
beach will forever remain embedded in my very fabric.
To this day, I can close my eyes, and
relive it all. Building sandcastles with my
brothers. Chasing seagulls. My father’s white nose.
Sometimes, seeing dolphins dancing above the waves.
And eating ice cream ALL DAY LONG!
So
many good memories.
And
one horrible memory, of
hearing my mother’s
screams when she looked out into the ocean and saw that Bill and Max
were gone.
From
that day, we lived beneath a cloud that never rained upon us, yet
always threatened to.
Our
family returned to the beach every year. We’d stay in the
same hotel. And my mother would sit in the same spot, just staring at
the blue emptiness. Though it was never said, I
always believed my parents held out hope they
would see them again.
Why
don’t they? I
wondered.
I
did.
I
tried to tell my parents. But they never
believed me.
"Maybe
when they’re
in heaven," Max would say.
Even
after my parents passed away, I would return to the beach. I’d sit
there for hours, watching the waves. And I'd try to understand why my
brothers no longer spoke to me.
Let me know what you think.
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