The Bridge on Porter Street 1/10

It was a nice, cool, fall day. The leaves faded into their light and delicate colors. I was walking down Porter Street near the brook. “Splash!” I heard something in the water and looked. My dad was paddling his scarlet single seated kayak down the stream. Raising my arm I greeted him and he waved back at me. I ran up onto the bridge and waited for him looking down with the noon sun reflecting on the rapids and waited for him. He traveled down the small rapids going under the bridge. I ran to the other side waiting for him to come out. I saw a paddle float from under the bridge. “He must have dropped the paddle again.” I thought to myself “He does it all the time.” The kayak did not follow the paddle, “Is he stuck?” I wondered. All of a sudden my father started to scream in agony, blood flowed from underneath the bridge.

I gasped and woke up in my bed. I was relieved it was only a dream. I looked at my clock to see another fright; my alarm did not go off again. I screamed “Stupid crappy clock!” as I raced down to catch the bus. I made it to the bus but I looked like a wreck. I sat down in my usual seat, which was the one next to the emergency window because I always had this problem where I thought of worst-case scenarios.
My friend Tim turned around from his seat, “So, I’m coming over your house tonight to hang out.”
“Yes at seven”. Tim and I were friends since third grade. He lived near my house just over the bridge.



It was middle October and I was in my junior year of high school. The bus arrived at school within ten minuets.





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