PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

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

One thought on “Crossing

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