There was something behind the rock.
She hitched her bag back over her shoulder and stepped off the path. Hidden in the ferns, she had time to think. Was there another way to get to the hill? Could she wait it out? Should she confront it?
A million more questions plagued her, comforted her, kept her still in body, if not mind.
She was stuck in the safety of not moving on.
The rock was fairly small for a boulder in these parts, wasn’t it? Or was it large? She didn’t dare peek, relying on the accuracy of memory.
Fear danced with reality and the rock became a boulder, then three, then a wall. Late morning shadows stretched before her, creating shapes of all that the obstacle could be.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, another, another… On opening them, she saw the dark shape of the ferns. Felt the fear of the woman waiting in them. She stepped out from behind the stone, reached out her hand, and walked with her to the hill.
Here is my attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent. (So pleased Sue was feeling able to bring #writephoto back. Please do visit and write a little something.)