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My interior monologue was a running stream as I struggled down the boulder-strewn corridor. Jen, run, breathe. Only a side stitch, a twisted ankle, a bursting heart. One more ridge, past that tree, that shoulder of stones and debris. The jagged, tumbled rocks reflected my thoughts. Dogs bayed in the distance.


I crashed through brush, tripped, slid down a slope of scree on my hands, scraped the skin off my palms.

Radio static filtered through the trees in close proximity.

I skidded to a precipice. Gravel skittered over the edge. A mighty falls thundered in the canyon. I whirled to face an officer who raised his weapon.

He shouted, but his voice was thin, his words lost in the roar.

I smiled, turned to the cliff, and leaped. No way I was going back. At least I was free.


Thank you to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers for providing prompts and organizing entries.  Photo prompt by Pamela S. Canepa.