Their own quiet spot: the water brown from the muddy bed; the beach a mixture of sand and silt; the tree that grew out horizontally from the water’s edge before curving up towards the heavens.

It was here they had first stolen away together, away from the group of friends hanging around the park in the village. That first embrace, that first nervous kiss.

It was here that they had kept returning to, unable to keep away from each other, unable to keep their hands off each other, unable to stop the desire to be together: to kiss; to feel; to eventually, naturally, blissfully consummate their love for each other.

Here was their tranquillity, their escape, where they could be themselves, hidden from the prying eyes of the world.

They they barely spoke to each other at school to avoid rumour, and in amongst a group of friends their only contact was furtive and stolen glances.

Until one day they had been found, lying together in their quiet spot, mid-embrace, mid-kiss, lying on the silty-sand next to the muddy brown water. They heard the laughs, the shouts, the whistles, the anger as they separated and fled.

It was from the tree that grew out from the water’s edge before curving towards the heavens that they were found hanging. Their, cold, dead hands still entwined.

The two boys who could only find their tranquillity by leaving the cruel, unaccepting world behind.

This is a response to the #writephoto Prompt – Tranquil curated over at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. Click on the link to read other stories inspired by the image.