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In the early morning I discover a well-worn path leading away from the house. It takes me towards the woods, across the parkland. Wider than a deer-track, it is a route made by and for humans; the earth rubbed smooth by heels and souls. The path passes into a stand of yew, beech and oak, but five hundred yards on, it stops; an abrupt dead-end of ferns and bramble. I can’t see why, since the path is so worn. Where did those who travelled it go? I turn to walk back; before I reach the edge of the wood I am running.
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This is a 100-word flash fiction story written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who has also provided this week’s photo. Click here to read other people’s, or here to write your own story.
