If you don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works or you want to join in, wander on over to the purple fields and check out Rochelle‘s page. 1 photo, 100 words.
“Fog’s burning off.”
I looked up at the feeble sun, just visible through the murk. The river was black with melted silver showing at the edges. We leaned on the fence, breathing hard. We ran as far as we could while the fog held, hoping to put in some distance.
“Your granda used to tell stories of the old country. Green hills and the mist coming down over the river.” Dad’s lilt came out, like it always did when he talked about his Da.
I heard the low thunder of countless feet.
“They’re coming,” I said.
Time to run again.