The lake is exactly sixty-seven feet deep. I can stand on the bottom, neck craned, and not hear the cries on the surface. I like it, the peace it offers that life never could. Except when the children come. They are clean and bright now and I envy them deeply. The London smog still chokes me. Their boats are handmade and not very sturdy. Thankfully.
I used them to measure the lake, first off. The average child is four feet tall. I was worried they wouldn’t fit when the last boat came down. But one of them came down in halves.
FLASH FICTION 101 JUNE 2020 SHORTLISTED ENTRY
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