Submerged in icy murk he thrashed in wild panic as his father barked orders from the boat. The storm had torn their little fleet of dinghies from the moorings, ripping cleats and scattering boats across the river. He reached up and grabbed the stern where he had been sitting moments earlier and pulled closer, shivering as the top of his body left the freezing water. ‘SWIM’ the oar cracked across his fingers with agonising pain. He had no time to feel it, as he fell back and sank below, a small cloud of blood disappearing in the ripples. Filthy, thick salt water rushed up his nose and down his throat, his body contracting around his broken hand sending him spinning under the water. The anger built from his hand and empty belly, teeth gritting and cold numbing his senses. He kicked.


4 responses to “Swim”

  1. Peter says :

    Sorry to leave this here, Roy but I seem to have misplaced your contact details.

    I can’t make it to the New Arts Centre today. Sorry about that. Hopefully see you Monday.

  2. Marilyn says :

    This is a great short story. It’s very visual, good work.

    I’ll add your link to my blog.

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