River

antiques-along-the-mohawk

Yesterday I asked the fat nurse to describe the view.

‘A river,’ she said, her big hands moving confidently as she changed my dressings. There was no disgust in her face, although even I can smell my decaying self, my rotting body.

‘And on the opposite bank,’ she said, ‘are two yellow chairs. What d’ya say we break out of here and go and have a nice sit down?’

Today it was a new nurse, thin. I imagined her fat colleague, weighing down one yellow chair, waiting. But I didn’t ask her to look. I don’t want to know that both chairs are empty.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers 100-word (or so) short story based on the picture provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and written about by writers all over the world.

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This week WordPress interviewed me about my writing, and included a big mention for the wonderful Friday Fictioneers. Read the piece here.

‘They questioned everyone who had been by the river that day,’ said Hedda. ‘All the picnickers, the dog walkers. It was hours too late by then, of course. But people remembered her; she was very striking, my mother.’

‘And?’ said Richard.

‘No one saw where she went. One moment she was there, the next gone.’ Hedda shrugged, resigned, no longer tormented.

‘Really, nothing?’

‘Well, perhaps one thing. When the morning mist cleared, Dad went back to the river and waded to the far bank. He found footprints, in the mud. Right size.’

Richard raised his eyebrows.

‘The toes pointed away from the water.’

For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Erin Leary) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in.

And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.

Claire Fuller

writer

Flash Fiction: Crossing the river alone

Flash fiction: Thirteen Years Gone