The water darts around my outstretched toes, cool and soft. It’s not one of those languid streams, but a playful one. Sometimes it scurries around the rocks, sometimes it gently sweeps over, and every now and then it decides to make a dash and a splash, gurgling and hissing. I quickly pull my foot out. It’s hard to say how deep the stream is, and the stones are smooth and slippery. Further down is a quick little drop, as if gravity were snatching the waters into its bowels and letting out a satisfied burp and beyond that a joyful frothy pool. The air is permeated by the scent of moss and lichens, the unique indescribable smell of mist, and the stillness of peace and beauty.
The children probably thought the pretty pool an easy conquest.
How wrong they were.
In response to: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, Week of April 11 2017
Image by: Maria with Doodles and Scribbles