In the middle of a fast-flowing river sat a little island. Often we’d hold hands, leap into the water and battle with the current as we swam to it. Doing foolish things is part of growing up, isn’t it?
One day she made a flag. We used a broken branch for a pole and claimed the island for ourselves.
The river was a torrent that day. I said no way. Coward, she said as she dived in, the last thing she ever said.
A year later I returned. The flag was still there. I surrounded it with a heart of stones. I’ve not been back since.
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle and J Hardy Carroll provided this week’s photo.
Prod the frog to see what other’s have written.