As Simon and Garfunkel didn’t sing, “hello Friday my old friend/ I’ve come to write fiction with you again.” Yes, it’s the weekly Friday Fictioneers jamboree, hosted by Rochelle who offers us this week’s pic:
from which to derive 100 words. Mine go a little bit like this:
In his dream the river always seemed a mile wide. He walked across the bridge, sometimes even ran, but always awoke before he reached the far green fields.
They had spent every August of his childhood in the same countryside villa. He remembered playing on that bridge, angling for tiny fish, watching sticks and leaves float beneath. But these were filtered recollections, technicolour images rather than negatives.
Only by asking the questions would he reach the green fields. Why was the far side of the bridge off limits? Why the same villa every year? Why was his father never there?