When the path ahead is too steep, step slowly, eyes down.
Thus we climb to the cliff-top, my gaze fixed on the flexing white slabs of his calves, using his bulky frame for shelter – wondering whether he took his meds today.
We reach the precipice; he goes to the brink.
“Here,” he says, motioning me forward.
I can’t trust him, though. Not these days.
Suddenly a jagged semi-circle is gouged between us, as if by an invisible marker-pen.
He tries to step away, too late.
Oh the noise…
Hot tea, warm clothes, a nap.
Then maybe alert the coastguard.
The photo this week is one of mine, taken at beautiful West Bay on the Dorset coast, just an hour’s drive from us. I could have posted a re-run from the last time this picture was used – Erosion – but it seemed some people had to read it twice to understand it.
Happy Thanksgiving to Rochelle, the multi-talented leader of Friday Fictioneers, and to all my American writing colleagues.