Down By The River

Finton Creek

Finton Creek tasted like blood.

She spat out a mouthful of the foul-tasting water, before wading deeper into the river, the sandy waves eddying around her thighs.

"Maeve," a distant voice called, frantically cutting through the wind, and jerking the young girl into action.

She could hear footsteps.

Maeve shook her head, skimming her fingertips across the surface and plunging her arm, elbow-deep into the shallows.

"Come on," she muttered anxiously, the tips of her dark hair whipping against frost-bitten cheeks.

Sifting through the muddy riverbed, her fingers grazed the smooth surface of a bottle.

Maeve Anderson smiled one last time, glancing over at the small patch of trees to the edge of the bank, before lowering her head into the water.

Finton Creek tastes like blood.

Only now, it is the same colour, too.