It had become nothing more than a laughing stop for visitors and local school children. Few remembered why the shark’s head jutted from the pier as though a cheap horror movie was in a constant state of production. Every year on June 3, a disheveled old man walked down the pier and stood in front of the sculpture and wept. He had been seen every June for more than seventy years and each year was more painful than the one before. He was tired – physically, mentally, and emotionally. He was tired of living for ghosts. He owed it to them though – his classmates – his teacher – his father. He owed it to those whose lives were taken that fateful day when the shark attacked. The town may have forgotten … turned it into a mockery, but he never forgot. Survivor’s guilt was worse than death.
Sadje posted the above image in response to the Tell-a-Story challenge and opened it to anyone…so, obviously I picked it up.