A Day at the Beach

A short story on love and loss…

I did not remember regaining consciousness. In fact, I didn’t know if I was conscious. It was hard to know anything at that point. The noise was still there, almost deafening. I tried to move. I couldn’t move. My vision was blurred. I felt nothing. I focused enough to see a blackness, like death, hanging over the beach. Swimming. I was swimming to keep my head clear. Fighting. I wished the noise would just stop. It wasn’t the shellfire or the machine gun fire that got to me as much as the screaming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could catch glimpses of movement. Someone running past. Another shell blast and a body or what was left of one flying through the air to the right of me. I focused my mind to try and have a thought. Why the hell couldn’t I move, I thought. I had to try and move. Not a damn thing I could do for anyone like this, another thought I was able to shape. I was slowly becoming painfully aware of where I was. Fox Green, I thought, but who knows where we really ended up. Right now, I was in hell. I hoped, or thought about hoping that somehow, I was back at Atlantic City.

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