Before they forced us all out, we told them about the caves and the rivers. How the little stick figures we wove from pine branches protected us from those within. They laughed. Called us names and said there weren’t such things in the known world.
“This isn’t the known world,” we said.
They pushed. Some of us bled. And many died. But we left, burning herbs and leaving hides and knives on the banks behind us. Tribute. Payment for passage. The newcomers laughed, carried our gifts to their huts. Huddled against winter.
We returned with the spring thaw. Found nothing.
Inspired by Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto.