Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition 2022: Penny Ossia Writes “Memorial” | Newcastle Herald

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Charlotte Parkinson stared straight ahead, narrowing his view until he turned his gaze to a location on the horizon. When I was a kid, looking through binoculars and viewfinder toys, I felt like it took me a while to focus on what I could see before my brain caught up. Now when she focused on the horizon, the reality was that she wasn’t looking at anything. She wasn’t watching. .. .. Or trying. A breeze blew across the deserted beach where Charlotte and her husband Miles sat side by side, enough distance to touch. But don’t touch it. Their blue and white beach umbrellas provided a rest from the midday sun, casting a faint shadow on Charlotte and half a mile. Miles always seemed to give up on that extra shade to make sure Charlotte was in full protection. That was his essence, and if Charlotte noticed, she didn’t say. There were many things she didn’t say. The soothing sound of water wrapping was captivating as the waves, part of the laws of nature, gently rolled to the shore and then slowly receded. Water comes and water goes. An eternal cycle as reliable and scientific as it was mysterious and unexplained. Charlotte dug his toes into warm sand, rocking his toes slightly from side to side to feel a rough exfoliation, and pressing deep into his heels to create twin dents. As she dragged her gaze down, she was confused by the patterns she was making and enjoyed the feel of the sharpened sand as she massaged her feet. She immediately stopped all movements and returned her legs to the resting pose. Both were looking forward and didn’t feel. Charlotte was able to feel the restlessness of Miles as he rocked his beach chair in an attempt to be comfortable. Miles didn’t like to stay still. That was his nature, but today he wrestled with the turmoil of inertia and just tried to do so. Miles was also scanning the horizon, though he didn’t know what he was looking for. Probably will answer. The answer he knew wasn’t there. It was the 15th time Charlotte and Miles sat in this place on this day at this point. Just sit down, wordless, meaningless, helpless and hopeless. Charlotte thought it might become easier over the years. I’m sure time will heal. Isn’t that what they say? “Time heals wounds.” Well, some wounds are too deep and too devastating to heal-Charlotte called BS with that saying. 14 years of pain, indescribable pain, intense sadness, indescribable heartache. The details of all those years ago were fading. Charlotte thought it would never happen. Catch the faint aromas of salt, seaweed and coffee (is it really coffee?) And Charlotte tried to remember the smell of the day. Coconut scented sunscreen? Vegemite? A new tennis ball. .. .. Or was it a beach ball, giving off the smell of plastic heated by the illness? She couldn’t remember and it bothered her. She had to remember. She didn’t have to forget. Charlotte remembered that panic, heartbeat, and adrenaline-inducing horror swallowed her. The sound she heard that day was different. She remembered it. The remains of a large storm were hitting the beach. They now call them East Coast Rows, a term new to Charlotte. At that time, they were just a big storm, a monster storm. Charlotte remembered that there was a big swell, and occasional fraudulent wave collisions snapped into your senses, reminding you of power, the power of the sea, even if you weren’t paying attention. I’ll put it back. Charlotte thought Miles was looking at him, and Miles thought Charlotte was looking at him. No one was actually watching. For Charlotte, that was probably the hardest thing to do. No one was watching. He was alone. A roar, a roaring sand at your feet, and a wind blowing salt spray as the sea approached eroded their space. There was a wave of monsters. .. .. And he’s gone. Screams, pounding feet, searching, running, lifesaver, sirens, boats launched in danger, waiting, waiting. Then hope, wishes for things to be right, and the chance, a small body embraced in the arms of a muscular surfer, gently placed on the sand, worked by bystander doctors and nurses, and dropped his head. Sometimes shattered, tears, tears. Fourteen years later, Charlotte and Miles, who were sitting exactly where they were playing with the little boy, were sitting nearby but not touching. It takes time again to reset memorials, memories, traditions, the last 10 and a half years, and restore what we can do. 14 years without going to school or playing soccer. You will not laugh, cry, love, make fun of, hug, sing, or exist. It was time to go soon. It will be another year to think about what happened and what hadn’t come yet. They will be back. As that determination progressed every year, it never diminished. They remember, mourn, mourn, and return to forgiveness. It wasn’t immediately recognizable, but the noise looked up at both Miles and Charlotte together. The boy, who was supposed to be this age, was jogging at the edge of the water, his eyes fixed on the horizon, and he was approaching an uncertain future step by step. But that was the future. Charlotte and Miles stood up and packed up their luggage, Miles carefully twisted his umbrella into the case, and Charlotte struck a piece of semi-moist sand still on his chair, hung his bag on his shoulder, and finally retreated to see the water. Did. Of a boy. I didn’t have any words, so I reached out and held hands and walked away. *** The author of this work, Penny O’Shea, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition.


Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition 2022: Penny Ossia Writes “Memorial” | Newcastle Herald

Source link Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition 2022: Penny Ossia Writes “Memorial” | Newcastle Herald

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