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Weekly Contest #308
Many summers ago, before the town had streetlights and sidewalks, before the lake was fenced off and called a “protected reserve,” it was just our lake. Unnamed, unclaimed. It lived behind Old Man Dyer’s orchard, down a winding dirt trail the grown-ups didn’t talk about but all the kids knew. We called it the Mirror, because on still days it looked just like one — reflecting back the sky, the trees, and your face if you leaned in far enough. That summer — I must’ve been eleven — the Mirror dried up. It didn’t happen all at once. First, the w...
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