Continuing on myself and my family’s writing journey here is the next installment. The rules are simple. 1) Someone pics a topic 2) We have fifteen minutes to write. 3) We read our works out loud. 4) We vote via chocolate chips.  5) The kids type out there stories as they wrote them with minimal corrections.

Topic: Swimming in the Ocean.

Sydney

As I stood by the banks of the shore I remembered the memory of two years ago flashed past. I swore to never come here again but no. The water called to me, I felt a sudden urge to jump in ut before I could make up my mind I was knocked into a wave which pulled me under. I tried to resurface but another wave knocked me down again. I felt my breath was being pulled away from me. Then finally the waves subsided and I stood up. I seemed that when I was under time stopped for no one seemed to have noticed a girl drowning, arms flailing in the air.Then I realized this fear might kill me so might as well overcome it and as another wave came crashing in I dove under. When I got up I realized that I didn’t have to be scared of the water. I was soon joined by my friends and we swam in the ocean the rest of the day

Conlan

His head broke the surface and he gasped for air. Plunging under again he takes 2 strokes. The water rushes past as he is propelled along. Beside him competitors lead ahead. When he goes under again he takes 3 strokes trying to catch up. But he runs out of air and falters. His arms are slowing down but he pushes on. In the distances a boat signals the finish line. Arms on fire he pushes harder. Thinking that failure is only giving up. The winner passes the finish line, 50 meters ahead. He slows down and starts to despair. 2nd place reaches the end. Then he steals himself and his resolve hardens. He churns water moving forward. But he reaches at last place. His coach helps him out onto his legs and says.”Hey not so bad for only arms.” As he straps on his prosthetic legs.

Jason

I woke up at night in a sweat. That nagging feeling had been bothering me all evening since we arrived home. I stranded it. Left it alone. To waste away. Swept away. Rust away.
Many years later, the memory would still haunt me. I could still feel the grit of wet sand between my hands and the wood. You know that feeling. You can quite wipe your hands free of any grit no matter how hard you try, yet when you grip the wood handle, you make another attempt to brush off the sand.
Of course your hand just gets sandier when you dig. Digging deeper but not wider. Eventually you will just hit water and the sides of the hole start to collapse like melted butter. Frantically, you try to dig deeper-but you can never win. Never. The sand, the water, and especially the tide. Ever present and all too powerful. Water always comes in, relents and flows out.
Anything left in the tidal zone will perish. For the strong or at least the capable can swim against the tide and survive. But I doomed it as it was not a strong swimmer. It couldn’t even bob in the water despite its cellulose composition.
And that is what haunted me over these many years. Its probably silly to even think of any alternate outcome. But perhaps there was an alternate ending. Perhaps another child like myself wandered the shore and saw a lonely wooden handled shovel sitting in a caving in hole. But-no there’s no chance a little boy or girl would pick up a worn/misshapen shovel. It simply drowned. I let it drown. shovels don’t swim the ocean.

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