The Wishing Bridge
It was smaller than Ginny remembered; the wood turned dull gray with age. Nails protruded where they had worked themselves loose with decades of thawing and freezing. New trees had grown up, and old trees had fallen. And the path of the creek meandered a bit more to the left. But this was it, her wishing bridge.
It was smaller than Ginny remembered; the wood turned dull gray with age. Nails protruded where they had worked themselves loose with decades of thawing and freezing. New trees had grown up, and old trees had fallen. And the path of the creek meandered a bit more to the left. But this was it, her wishing bridge.
It had been years since she'd been here—years since she'd spent long afternoons chasing sunbeams through these woods, hunting salamanders and crawfish. She could still hear echoes of laughter that bounced between fireflies before her father's whistle drew her home. Those days, she played tag with the fairies and wrote poetry with the wind. Those days, she believed in magic.
But too much had changed. Ginny had changed.
The boards creaked under her weight as she took a cautious step forward. She could only hope it was more resilient than her.
The idea of the bridge was simple—nothing more complicated than a game from a children's book. Two sticks raced on the current, and whichever emerged from under the bridge first was the winner. But the alchemy of childhood made it something more. With the right question, you could read the future. With enough hope, you could grant wishes. And Ginny had both: plenty of questions and an abundance of hope.
The first time, Ginny was a lonely six-year-old with dreams of a sibling. She cast two sticks into the water. One to wish for a baby brother. One for a baby sister. The sister-stick never emerged, but her brother was born nine months later.
The bridge had been Ginny's weatherglass, her advisor, her touchstone. It led her through fights with her friends and her family, telling her when to stand up for herself and when to apologize. It guided her past her first fumbled kiss. She poured her hope into the creek with faith that the current would carry her to the right people, the right parties, and even the right future.
But the future is never so easy as hopes and wishes. Standing on this weathered bridge, Ginny felt the weight of the intervening years. Her broken marriage. Her career lurching toward total collapse. The hole where a family should have been. As much as she tried and as much as she wanted, Ginny could not weep or scream. She could barely feel anymore. She was paralyzed in her failure.
A few days before, Ginny stood on another bridge—far wider, far higher—with the last of her hope in her hands. She looked at the water below and wished it would swallow her whole, for the current to carry her away to oblivion. But she could not throw herself over the rail. Not here. Not this bridge.
Instead, her feet carried her back through the years to the gray bridge cloistered in the wood. Hope trickled through her fingers with each step until the last drop fell and washed under the bridge. She heard a whisper: keep going. Start again.
Writing Battle Spring 2023
Prompts: Magical Realism | Nostalgia | Resilient
Results: Did Not Place (4 Points)
