short fiction · 2026-10-30

The Current Underneath

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The river does not ask permission to move. It carries silt and fallen leaves, the occasional bottle, a child's lost shoe — all of it indifferent to the bridge above. Ninety-two seconds between cars. The bridge holds its breath between each crossing, steel cables humming a note too low for ears.

Mara leaned on the railing, watching a plastic bag snag on a submerged branch. It fluttered there, trapped in the eddy's small rebellion. She had come to watch the water because water does not negotiate. It does not say perhaps tomorrow or I will consider it. It goes.

Her frustration was a stone in her pocket, familiar weight. Three weeks of the same conversation with her sister. Three weeks of I'm trying meaning I won't. The bridge knew this feeling — the tension of spanning what cannot be crossed by wishing.

A heron stood motionless in the shallows. One second. Two. Strike. The minnow never knew the shadow was a decision.

Mara exhaled. The current underneath kept moving. She could stay here counting seconds between cars, or she could walk back to her car and drive toward the conversation she'd been avoiding. The bridge would hold either way. The river would not notice her choice.

She pushed off the railing. Ninety-three seconds until the next car. Plenty of time.