The following story is based on the Writers Write Daily Writing Prompt for August 28th, 2022. To find out more or sign up for the Daily Writing Links click here. I receive no commission or incentive from them, I just think it's a great site/email list.
Our story began in a church.
The pews resembled a stormy sea; no one dared wear anything more bold than a deep navy. Most were in black down to their socks and unmentionables. This wasn't just any service, any funeral. Lincoln Lay was truly remarkable. Not in a he is from a family of means so he got to do more in life sort of way, or in a he died young so we need to say good things bout him sort of way. He was an honest-to-goodness, jaw-dropping, breathtaking, mind-blowing talent.
Born and raised on the rough side of town, a good day for him was one where he got more than one meal a day. He lacked many basic needs, but he still was drawn to the ocean. He once described it as the south pole of a magnet, and the north pole was in his heart, constantly feeling the tug.
But none of that mattered now.
The sea was not made of water, but of the heartbroken town of Armour. They had gathered to acknowledge what they had refused to accept until this very moment: Lincoln Lay was somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean; (likely the bottom) officially dead in the eyes of the state.
Eyes were red, noses runny. Many were sunburned, and had bags under their eyes that showed the weeks of sleep lost during the most exhaustive search and rescue attempt in the history of New England. All for naught.
Everyone had just gotten settled in their seats, or had decided where in the back they would stand. Reverend Stone gathered his notes and approached the pulpit. He felt a tight ache in his chest as he looked at the front row, at Amara Tonno, a woman now completely alone in the world. He took a deep breath, then began to speak.
"First, I want to thank every last one of you for coming, and for your constant support over the past 6 weeks" his voice projected throughout the church, but still had a quality of softness about it.
"Second, please keep in mind that we did not fail. This was God's plan, whatever the reason. And he is walking with the Lord now."
"Lincoln brought joy and light wherever he went. Always smiling, always offering a helping hand, whether it was helping someone cross the street or reroofing the community center, he never thought twice."
An old woman began dabbing her eyes.
"I know I was not alone in thinking that the young man was well on his way to the US Olympic sailing team, a dream that will never be realized now. But may we take comfort in the fact that he died doing what he loved, and he will rest forever in his favorite place"
Reverend Stone continued, citing Bible Verses about everlasting life, grand plans, and other nonsense. None of it made Amara feel better. Lincoln was her only child, the last remaining piece of the love of her life. Everything was real now. It had finally hit her. This is it.
She had felt the dread growing since the night Lincoln didn't come home. It started like a pebble in her shoe, small but acutely painful. Now, nearly two months later, it was like a two-ton boulder she was dragging around, like that guy in Greek mythology she learned about, but whose name escaped her.
The service concluded, people piled into cars, and headed for the water.
Lincoln never liked the idea of paddle-outs or leaving flowers in the ocean. If they were meant to be there they would be growing there, he used to say. He would have preferred a beach clean-up, or a fundraiser for the local wildlife rescue. But he wasn't there, and funerals are for the living.
Into the icy water they went. Flowers and leis soon littered the water. Amara stood on the shore, angry, but too tired to fight the masses. A few of Lincoln's friends shared some of their favorite memories of him, bobbing on their surfboards in what could have been the poppy field from the Wizard of Oz. It was cathartic, as if he was there with them.
Suddenly, one of the boys jumps up onto his board, visibly shaken. The others immediately pull their legs out of the water as well, and frantically look around for a dreaded fin hiding in the flowers.
The one who initially sounded the alarm suddenly grows pale, and begins to hyperventilate. Another young man paddles over to him, and immediately vomits, followed by a blood-curdling scream.
There lay Lincoln, softly swaying with his flowers.
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