Beneath the Bridge
He set off from the river’s edge alongside the old stone bridge.
Cool, shallow water, filtered between his toes.
As he waded across the river, his little sister’s pink plastic sandal straps, cut deep into the fleshy prominences of his feet.
He didn’t like adventuring into the water barefoot, and now his feet were paying the price of his impulsivity.
He doubted his sister would mind now.
Pursuing his course, he skirted the arches, staying close to the sun warmed bricks, until he reached the spot, halfway between the first and second arches.
Rivulets of water pushed their way between the silt and pebbles of the shallow water, channeling dancing minnows, making their way downstream.
He thrusted his fists deep into the pockets of his shorts and pulled out a sticky half-eaten mint with one hand and a crumpled photo with the other.
Sucking on the mint, he sat, propped against the bridge arch, and patiently confectioned the photo into a makeshift boat.
Setting it onto the water, he watched his sister disappear down the river, remembering the flood 324 days ago.
He whispered into the wind.
“I’ll be back again tomorrow.” (192 Words)
This post is my entry to this weeks Sunday Photo Fiction. It’s nice to be back writing amongst all the talented entrants.
The photo (Thanks C.E.) reminds me of the bridge over the River Avon in my home town of Chippenham. When I lived there it was often flooded and a second pedestrian bridge was constructed to transport people stranded on either side.