Under the Bridge
Story by Susan Reetz
Photo by Irene MacFarland
That fish jumped, straight up through the air, out of its
element, turned, and dove back down to what it knew best. It was then that I
realized just how hungry I was. Fish doesn’t normally appeal to me, but extreme
times call for extreme measures.
Gone are the days of regular foot traffic in this part of
town. Now everyone is in such a hurry they drive. Gas-swilling exhaust-belching
vehicles swarm at top speeds, engines roaring, ruining my piece of heaven.
Once upon a time I was respected. Some feared me. Many tried
to match wits with me and most faced
failure. Only a few crossed my path and lived to tell about it. They and
their blasted descendants went on to create this false environment and push me
into obscurity.
So here I sit. Under the bridge. Waiting for a weary
traveler to cross the bridge above me. I have questions three and a growling
emptiness waiting to be filled.
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