Abigail Kremer

United States

The River The Child Made

May 11, 2016

PROMPT: Two in a Canoe


GROUP: Flash Fiction

There are sounds that greet our ears as old friends, even if they have not met in a long time. The sound of the ice cream truck after a long winter greeting a child's ears, or the sound of the first morning dove that coos at the beginning of every day. These are the sounds that greet us happily and wholly each time.
For me that is the sound of a rushing river, of a waterfall. Not the recorded ones that people play to help lull them to sleep. No recordings. They aren't the same.
The sounds have to change and flow. The sounds of a river, never repeated, never rough. The sound of urgency, or the sound of calm. The sounds of the river, the sounds of people.
"Where are we going," whispers the child riding in my canoe.
"To the river," I answer.
"It's been three days on this lake," the child whispers, "Where, oh where's the river."
The boy did not see, but I clearly did. Through burning arms and blood shot eyes I saw the river clear as ice.
The sun rose and fell three times, the child crying still.
"Where's the river," the child whispers, "Where, oh where's the river."
A smile is plastered on this face, the river clearer still, rushing slower, beating slower, the river grows deeper still. A month goes by, the child cries. The river, to him, unclear.
"The river oh where, oh why, the river..."
I stare into his paling sight. We reach the river as light fades and he boy says naught; his river having been made.
I stare into his rushing river, its bright, it's lively, its clear.
"Here, oh here's the river," I say, as the child's spirit flows away...
In the river the boy incarnates.


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  • May 11, 2016 - 2:50pm (Now Viewing)

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