There were barely any clouds in the sky, just thin white stripes marking the otherwise clear blue ceiling above them. Sitting in the car, the children were singing about summer and the beach. The mother sighed. The sky sure loved to play around with them. She was sure that it was going to rain soon. There wasn’t a day Britain when it hadn’t rained and that was where they were headed.
They took the ferry from Calais and the children immediately headed up on deck, while the mother locked up the car. When the boat set off, the sun was still shining brightly.
Half an hour later, the mother looked up from the chair she had retreated to in the lounge. She had cuddled up in the couch, her feet pulled close and was reading a book, when her youngest son threw himself at her.
“Momma, we’re gonna drown,” he said, his eyes wide with fear. The mother was about to laugh at him, but thought better of herself and took a look outside. Fear clutched her stomach then, as she noticed that the rain was thudding down heavily on the boat and only now did she feel the rocking of the boat, which was increasing at an alarming rate.
“We’re not gonna die,” she said calmly to her son. “The sea is just a little rough here. We’ll soon be in sunny England.”
Just then the boat lurched to the left and the couch she was sitting on slid across to the window. Her son screamed and clutched her arm.
“I think you were right about the rain, momma,” he said, still eyeing the ocean with fear.
Sunday Photo Fiction, February 7th 2016
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