Abigail Jones

There’s a flash of white ahead. I snake between the rough-skinned trees and watch a girl take off her smock, revealing a black bathing suit. She lowers herself gently down to the edge of the rock. I don’t know how she slithered down that hill; even the trees look as if they’re about to topple over. Is she from the village? Why is she in my woods? She dips her foot in the water and the ripples fan out, distorting reflections, reaching the shore I’m crouching on.

Seed by Abigail Jones. Image by Ramon Haindl.

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One image, three seeds. Every story starts small.
Editor @ Bare Minimum Mag