During low tide we search for remnants of the conflict.
Every day brings with it a new surprise, gifts from the battle upstream. Metallic objects washing up on the shore, many of them unfamiliar and no longer of use. Military uniforms floating by like leaves. Body parts settling in oily reflections.
The fuselage of an aircraft sits in the river, our safe space during the high tide. Here we sit under the low sun, waiting for the waters to recede, eager to search for news of our parents.
A 100 word story for the Friday Fictioneers. Photo (c) Roger Bultot