Left to the wolves

And so their expedition started: across the quiet Sunday highway, toward the stretch of snow-covered trees that poked out on the hill above the river. “The river is frozen,” Martin stated. “We will be exploring it.” He picked up a handful of fresh wet snow, clapped it between his mittens, and hurled the snowball at Vic’s shoulder. Vic’s dad shook the snow off Vic’s jacket. “Nobody is exploring any frozen rivers,” he said. He looked left and right and, catching their hands, started crossing the highway. “Are there any wolves in that forest?” Vic asked, looking up to where his dad’s woolen hat blocked the greying sun. “It’s not a forest, Vic,” his dad said. “It’s just a patch of trees. Don’t you remember? We were there for a picnic.” Vic didn’t remember. The picnic, the green grass and the rippling river seemed like a picture from a movie he had watched a long time ago and had forgotten. “There will be polar bears,” Martin said, jumping. He wriggled himself free and ran across the…

Commenting on Bubbles has been removed. Why? If you want to talk about this post, write to the author, use the comments on their blog if it has them, or reply with a "RE:" post on your own blog. Suggestions? feedback@bubbles.town