For Six Sentence Stories where the given word is Island.
Our parents didn’t know, we daren’t tell them but doing foolish things is part of growing up, isn’t it?
A fast-flowing river ran past our village with a little island downstream, and often Verity and I would hold hands, leap into the water and battle with the current to swim to it.
She made us a little flag which we planted in the middle thereby claiming it for ourselves, and on balmy summer afternoons we’d lay on our backs, hand in hand in a herbose clearing and hear nothing but the rushing water and birdsong.
I didn’t want to do it that day, the river was a tumbling torrent but I allowed her to persuade me; come on she said, the last thing she ever said.
Several years later I returned and the flag was still there, but my eyes were drawn to something in a tree fluttering in the breeze, and I realised it was a shirt, one of Verity’s shirts.
I plucked it from the branch, pressed it to my face and it smelled sweetly of herbs, the herbs on which we used to lay; I’ve not been back again.
Thanks to GirlieOnTheEdge for hosting.