Jean' Guillory

The Wishing Lake

There was no sound. No wind, no birds, and the surface of the lake was utterly still. In so many pictures, Ashley had seen this lake sparkle under green trees in the warm sunlight. Of course it would be grey today. The sky was overcast, and the clouds stooped low, their wings saturating the treetops. Fog misted up at the reaches of the lake. The far bank was dark with black trees. She had stuttered down the steep bank, skidding through mud and catching herself on branches to get as close to the surface of the lake as she could—the Wishing Lake.