February is cruel, but nowadays it’s from lack of light and not from snow or ice.
“Here was once a bridge”, Jack points at the rotting stumps extruding through fermenting mulch.
“In winter we would skate. In summer we could bathe.”
“Grandpa, what’s skating?”
“I can’t explain it any longer, Selma.”
His skin, stuck to latex, longs for air, it longs to be whipped by icy winds, it longs for snow.
“Can we go back inside? I don’t like my safesuit.”
Jack takes his granddaughter’s hand. Together they head back to the decontamination chamber.
Every month is cruel now.
I don’t think I’m the only one who will see something dystopian in the picture. I see what once was a beautiful bay with a wonderful bridge overgrown. I see a winter way too warm. I wonder of we would ever be just visitors to our own soil.
Friday Fictioneers is a blogging community where we write stories to the same picture every week. Rochelle selects the same picture and set the bar with her own writing, and we often strive in vain to meet the high standards.
February 3, 2016