They Nick-Named it the Porridge.
1920's. Classy lovers. Women with finger-waved hair smoothed with soft pin-curls and men wore it slicked back. A constant Camel no-filtered cigarette hanging from a strong jaw-line. Some how I changed time. Somehow I was there. We drove our long, sleek yellow car. All of us stuffed in the back seat. I am surrounded by men in my knee-length retro dress. We drove off on a curving country road, reveling in the smells of summer and hearing the crackling buzzing of a radio from the raspy speakers. We wound up at an unknown lake. It sparkled, the sun reflecting on the rippling waves was almost too much for my weak eyes to seep in. The summer sun was blistering hot, sending great beads of sweat down our necks. The cool, crisp water called out our names over and over again. Off went our day clothes into our bathing suits. I could feel the rush of the refreshing water cool my warm, sun-burnt skin. It encompassed me whole. The sand from the lakes bottom crushed in-between my toes. There was a tire swing hanging from an old, crooked tree, whose life had ended. But still, bravely and strongly, it held that old tire with a huge frayed, braided rope. Somehow the sky vigorously shifts--a quick jolt of the brain and suddenly the sun vanishes and is replaced by huge sad clouds. They are grey and full of doom. The entire mood surrounding me begins to mourn. I then realize I am alone. I call out to my friends. Desperate. Aching for an answer. I look down and I see one. His eyes, look at me distressed. I try to reach him, I swim faster and faster and faster down! down! down! to the depths of the lake, reaching out my long, freckled arms to him! Why can I not reach him? He is just out of my grasp! Why am I so weak? Every time I am closer to clutching his hand, I must go up and gasp in the now cold, air. It hits my lungs like glass, but still, breath it in. I go down again, trying to ration my breaths. But still, to no avail. I go up again, and down. Again. Again even I try! The last time I go down I can not find him. His body has been swallowed by thick sea-weed. It mocks me. It has won this tug-of-war battle. He has sunk into a watery grave. I am the loser. My heart sinks. An eerie feeling of panic, anger, and anguish penetrate my skin, heart, and lungs. I float up to the top of the lake. Now it snows, huge white puffs fill the frozen arctic air. I can see my breath like giant rings of smoke. I am in present time again. No car is on the now pavement road. I am all alone now in this frozen wilderness. Wet, tired, and hopeless. I don't know what happens to me in the end. I am sure it is melancholy.