Shouting Underwater

The year is 1967 and Daunte Criest is on his way to Princeton to make a case for allowing female students into programs. The U.S. is in social rebellion due to the Vietnam War, the civil rights movement, the Cold War, and the British Invasion. Hardly a positive atmosphere for constructive change. Nonethless, Daunte is very determined, and to all those, like Callie who he meets along the way, he seems to pursue a noble cause. In part it is, but it is a nobility that has an eerie beginning, and one to question and affirm along the way. Willow, his sister, is his incentive to travel from Fort Walton Beach to the prestigious campus in New Jersey, a journey she is unable to take and a weight that hangs heavy as he climbs the steps to the train.

UPDATE SCHEDULE: every SUNDAY (or second sunday depending on what's going on)

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2. ONE

THE WALK IN THE COLD WINTER NIGHT SEEMED BRISK AND REFRESHING AS FEATHER-LIKE SNOWFLAKES GENTLY KISSED THE CHEEKS OF DAUNTE CRIEST, AND MELTED.

 

Here and there were squares of warm yellow light where perhaps families enjoyed hot cups of cocoa as they watched movies or gazed into the flickering flames of the fireplace.

 

He walked on.

 

The wind tossed the snowflakes with more force against his face, but it didn't deter him in the slightest. Within a few minutes, the playful, frisky wind turned into a snarling beast hurling tiny pellets of pain at his stinging cheeks.

 

Daunte turned for the train station.

 

The suit he had dressed in for the funeral that had seemed so warm when he had left home now gave no resistance to the roaring beast seeking to kill him with breath of wind and ice, and he silently cursed himself for not thinking more clearly about the turn of events that would most likely happen as the day continued on. But then soon enough, he didn’t care.

 

Daunte rounded the corner, thoughts bouncing off the the sides of his skull within and a cigarette in hand, and he then collided with someone that left his frosty skin tingling.

 

He blinked.

 

In front of him stood a small girl with eyes like a midwinter steel, but a face that he knew so well.

 

“Willow?” he took a step forward and the child looked over her shoulder before her gaze traced it’s way back to him.

 

“I’m Lily,” she said slowly, her face a mask of confusion.

 

He could feel as his heart fell from his chest and into his almost numb toes. But he knew this, already. This girl was not his younger sister. No, because she was dead.

 

“I’m sorry,” he uttered out under his breath and gently pushed past. His hands happened to be shaking, but he pretended to not realize that it wasn’t from the chill of the air.. The faster he walked, the more of a sting the wind had left as it whipped at his face with no mercy, but he welcomed the pain. He needed to feel something. Anything besides guilt, and grief.

 

But none of that mattered as the train rolled into the station, the sound of the wheels screeching to a halt filled the void of deafening silence, and he climbed on.

 

He didn’t turn back once.

 
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