another brick in the wall

A bridge going over a small river

I stood on the left side of the bridge contemplating my next move. There didn’t appear to be, below, a river to cross. No sound of running water, birds chattering, sweet aromas of flower, buzz of insects out for blood.

All I saw were man-made structures – wrought iron bridge crafted to be a thin, narrow structure set inside the remains of an older stone bridge.

Across the bridged, there appeared to be no exit. Just a blank wall of stones or worn bricks, topped by newer ones, shifting right angles towards the street.

Lyrics from Chris de Burgh ran through my mind:  “And still that voice came from beyond, Don’t pay the ferryman, Don’t even fix a price, Don’t pay the ferryman, Until he gets you to the other side.”

I turned my back on the pseudo-bridge. I didn’t want to pay the bridge-man even if  I got to the other side.

And, I’d left my wallet in my other pants.


For Sunday photo fiction “deviously” devised by the sunday fictioner, also known as Al.





One thought on “another brick in the wall

I like first person narratives.

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