John chewed happily as he waited. Vine weed made a pleasant change to the usual diet of bluebottles, mosquitoes and other winged insects that made it into his grill.
He’d heard them argue, of course.
“I know where we’re going. I’ve been here before.”
“You told me you’d been here with your folks, when you were 4. I hardly think that counts.”
“We should go left.”
“We should go right!”
“It’s definitely left.”
“I’m telling you we have to go…”
Turns out, one needs to make a decision at a crossroads; especially one divided by several acres of barren land.
This piece was submitted as part of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 1 photograph. 100 words. Sometimes over 100 people taking part.