My heart sinks. The river is wider than I had imagined. Swifter. Stronger. An ominous muddy turbid brown. I do not see any fishes, and I wonder why.
Unbroken dense clouds darken to burnt orange and gun metal gray. The rain will wash away my footprints and remove my scent from the bracken.
I should leave now.
The little canoe that I had planned to make my getaway on, now looks like it will be my coffin, carrying me out to sea rather than to the opposite bank.
If I go forward, most likely it will be my doom. If I turn back without help, I doom them all.
I get into my little boat.
In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 27th October based on a photo by Roger Bultot