text: She was on a footbridge, sitting precariously on the railing with one leg tucked under her while the other dangled over the edge. Her lavender skirt rustled gently around her upper calf as the breeze tickled her bare toes. The golden light of the late afternoon danced down from the leaves above and wove itself into her auburn braid. Oddly, she also had what appeared to be watercress tucked in her braid, as if it were a rose. She had a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows and the tip of her tongue peeked out from her rose-bud mouth as she studied the family of ducks splashing about in the stream below her, deftly holding a pencil and nearly-filled sketchbook in her lap. She didn’t hear the man approach. In fact, she had not noticed any of the other people as they passed by her on the wooden bridge. Joggers, walkers, dogs, bikes, they all passed by, giving the artist a brief glance before continuing on with their lives, relishing the warmth of the sun on their faces as winter finally removed it’s final grasps from the earth and spring took hold with full-force. It had been a long winter, and the forest had come alive the first chance it got, not only with it’s regular inhabitants, but with the various visitors as well. The man was no exception to those that were itching to taste the sun. Late night, snow-covered ice, and a driver that had had a few too many glasses of wine had resulted in the man ending up with several spinal surgeries and an extensive stay in the hospital. Only a few days ago was he able to walk on his own and leave the hospital. The golden rays seemed to have their own method of healing him. The breeze rippled in his hair and he seemed to gain strength in his muscles, each step more comfortable and sure than the last. He moved slowly, hoping to hold on to the sweet taste in his mouth of the fresh, crisp air. He used to walk this path at least once a week the previous summer. It picked up near his apartment, and a couple of miles down there was a small ice cream shop that he loved to frequent. He used the walk as an excuse to satisfy his ever-persistent sweet-tooth. One of his favorite places to stop and take a few moments to observe any critters that happened to be scurrying by was the old wooden footbridge that crossed over a small babbling brook. If you looked at the railing, you could see carvings of initials, some faded, some yet to be filled in with algae and moss. Ghosts desperate to keep the bridge from forgetting their footprints. Sometimes he would make up stories to go along with the initials, other times he would absentmindedly trace the divets of the letters in the wood as he watched the water dance and ripple over smooth stones of the stream. As he came up on the footbridge, he saw the artist perched on the right side railing. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he paused and leaned against the left side railing. He began to think that he had been too ambitious in his decision to take a walk, fiery fingers walking themselves up and down his back, squeezing themselves around his spine. He supposed this was not what the nurses meant when they told him to do some “light walking” every day. He shifted himself to the end of the bridge, where the post was large enough to rest the full width of his back against. Grimacing, he gingerly lowered himself to the ground, groaning as he got into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as a wave of nausea washed over him from the pain. When it passed, he opened his eyes again and gazed at the artist, who had still taken no notice of him. She was too focused on re-creating the image of the ducks below her. He wondered what it was about the ducks that compelled her to pick them to draw. There was a robin that was nesting in the tree right beside the bridge, as well as a squirrel stretched out napping on a branch that hung over the brook on his side of the bridge. She could have just as easily picked either of them to draw. He contemplated asking her, but something told him that he shouldn’t break her concentration. There was a beauty in her focus, how she gracefully balanced on the railing, looking at the world with learned eyes that caught details that he would never see. He wondered if she saw colors differently. If she could see the brushstrokes in the earth. He did not open his mouth to ask these questions, but she turned to look at him as if she somehow heard him. “Are you okay?” she asked. Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it all day, and he was startled by how her eyes seemed to match perfectly with the color of the late afternoon sun shining through the freshly-budded leaves. “Yes, yes, I’m okay,” said the man, suppressing a groan. “I’m sorry to interrupt you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in the woman’s lap. The woman glanced down, as if noticing it for the first time. She then turned back towards the creek. “Oh, you aren’t interrupting...” the woman trailed off, her gaze focusing on the small group of ducks now swimming under the bridge and away from her. She puffed out her cheeks slightly and exhaled roughly, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. She looked back down at her work in progress, twiddling her pencil between her index finger and thumb, uncertain. “I suppose it will have to be done, then,” she mumbled to herself. “I’m sorry,” the man apologized again, biting his lower lip nervously. “No, no, it’s really not your fault. Things move on whether you are ready for them to or not,” the woman shrugged. She deftly slid off the railing and stood, facing the man. Out of the corner of the man’s eye he thought he saw the current of the stream below shift strangely with the woman’s movement, but he figured there was just a fish or something that was swimming close to the surface. Her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you are okay?” “Oh, I mean, I’ll be okay. I just need to rest a bit.” He looked at the ground sheepishly. “Are you hurt?” The woman took a tentative step closer, as if looking for a way to help somehow. Another strange flutter in the water. “On the mend, actually. But I may have overdone it, today,” the man said with a slight chuckle. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced away from the woman. “Bad car accident. Several back surgeries later and I may have been too ambitious with having the freedom from the confines of a hospital room after a couple of months.” The artist watched him for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. There was a slight breeze that carried the scent of rain off of the woman, and the man vaguely wondered where she found a perfume like that. Her eyes then softened, and the man could see pity bloom across her face. For a moment, it even looked as though she were about to cry. She swiftly closed the gap between the two of them and knelt in front of him, and now the man was sure that the water was dancing with her every movement as he saw it spring from the otherwise calm current, lapping up onto the bridge. It was as if her body was the moon and she was pulling the water towards herself. The man’s heart rate sped up and a cold, nauseous feeling began to pool in the bottom of his stomach. He suddenly realized how quiet the forest had become since he had interrupted the artist. How he hadn’t seen anyone else pass by on the bridge. “What are y-” started the man, but he was abruptly cut off as the woman grabbed a fistful of hair on both sides of his head and pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were strangely cold and slippery. He tried to push her away, but he was shocked at the strength she had as she held her mouth firmly against his. She then began to force his mouth open with her own, and the man began wildly kicking and pounding on the woman as cold water burst forth from her mouth into his. He focused on breathing through his nose as he dug his fingers into the woman’s arms, leaving blossoming streaks of bright blood as he clawed at her. Suddenly he felt the back of his head crack against the boards of the bridge and his back seized in agony as she twisted his body so that he was laying on the dock, her legs pinning him down. She let go of his hair with one hand, keeping a firm grasp with the other, and pinched his nose between her thumb and middle finger. Water still was cascading from her into his mouth as pure panic flooded his body. As the man’s lungs filled with water, searing pain ripped through his chest and spine as he continued to try and fight off the woman with his quickly diminishing strength. His vision began clouding, and a strange sensation overcame him. He was losing the ability to move his limbs, and his body began to feel cool and fluid. It was as if he were spreading himself out, thinner and thinner, like butter being spread across toast. The pain was no longer there, just a gentle swaying sensation, as if being rocked to sleep. At some point the woman had pulled away to get a last glimpse before the man was gone. When everything was over, tears were gently dripping from her cheeks and into the pool of water that now replaced the man that had been sitting there. “I hope that you find peace,” she whispered softly, as water from the stream surged up onto the small footbridge, sweeping the woman and what had once been the man into a cool embrace.