Thirty steps to the river. Twenty-nine back to the scrub brush. I pull myself by the limbs, up into the canopy.

Eight weeks since the bombs fell and I ran. I ran. I ran. The water runs here, too. There’s safety in likeness, so I thought.

Two days since the khaki patrolman spotted me. He’d veered off their foot-torn path. I turned from the water, heard him too late. He only waved. His eyes were full.

The river draws us for different reasons. I go about mine. He goes about his.

No one’s come to cut him down. His boots still dangle in the grove, but I’m still running. Nine weeks. Running, run.

[113 words]

Current events have me in a dark mood. 

This post was written in response to this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers ChallengeThe photo prompt was provided by Maria at Doodles and Scribbles.