The Boy, The Bridge, And The Bog
The little boy sat on the abandoned bridge overlooking the bog. He came there each morning, on his walk to school, to watch as the sun’s rays failed to penetrate the bottomless pit of muck waiting beneath his dangling feet. But this morning there was no sun. At first the little boy thought that it might be the cloud cover, but when his steel grey eyes trailed the sky, he saw nothing. No sun, no clouds, no moon or stars. No light or darkness. He saw nothing. But he felt a cold wind that sent a tingle down his spine as it swayed the ancient trees that hid the boy, the bridge, and the bog. He understood that he should be concerned. Scared, even. Why, wondered the boy, did he feel as little as he saw in the sky? With his hands he opened his smooth plastic lunch box, palmed a perfect red apple, and, without thinking, tossed it from the bridge. With a dull plop, it sank deep into the liquid earth. Just then the boy noticed the light. It came from beneath him. From the bog. And the boy watched it for a while, watched the light rise and spread from underneath the abandoned bridge, watched it travel up into the sky and fill it with glorious, blinding light. Then he jumped.