Getting my Friday Fictioneers piece in while I feel in tune with the gloomy picture.
Photo © C.E. Ayr
“That’s it,” he said. “The way out.”
If we could climb up to the old footbridge, we could get out beyond the marshalling yards, he’d said. It had never been repaired after the bombing.
“Okay,” I said, willing to follow any plan, clutch at any straw however fragile. “Let’s go. Just tell me, when we get to the end of the bridge, we’ll be safe, won’t we?”
“It’s the edge of the city. No man’s land,” he said.
“But beyond, there’s green stuff and no soldiers, no looters, gangs, no guns?”
He stared down at his hands. “I don’t know.”