Photo courtesy of Janet Webb
Word Count: 100
To the untrained eye, it was a honeycomb. The chambers, used by the honey bee to store amber sweetness, were merely a poor replica, made from paper. Wasps, you see, once lived here, hatching their offspring. Abandoned now, it is a hollow cast off, waiting for the river to carry it away.
I see all this at a glance, pondering the usefulness of this knowledge now; wrestling on a precipice of my own making. One foot in the river, I let go, drawn into the channel like the paper wasp’s nest. Empty, alone, caving in on myself, spinning slowly downstream.
Please check out the links to all the other Flash Friday Fictioneers, which can be found here.
© Erin Leary