The Tunnel – Sunday Photo Fiction

AnElephantCant imitate a steam ship
His trunk is a feebly unconvincing funnel
So if he can’t sail
He must go by rail
He pretends he’s a choo-choo chugging along through the Chunnel

This is a weekly invitation to write a short piece of fiction (c. 150 words) based on a photo prompt (below) provided by Alastair.
Just click on the link to see some flowing fables in response to this week’s excellent prompt.
But please first cast an eye over AnElephant’s abashed abridgement.

Copyright Al Forbes

The Tunnel

I remember the last time I saw him.
It was in the tunnel, our tunnel.
It is the outlet for the water that runs down from the hills.
Various streams merge together at different points in town, eventually being channelled here.
It passes under the promenade and out into the sea beside the port.
We used to sneak in here after school, just the two of us.
He was always so romantic, he would read the poetry he wrote for me.
If he had his guitar he would serenade me so sweetly.
He stopped coming so often when he started hanging out with those older guys.
They were not nice people.
But I still came here, would sit for an hour or two, waiting to see if he would appear.
And one day he did.
He floated by, face down.