Ficlets

“The temple should be over the next ridge,” my companion said, rain dripping off the rim of his leather fedora. We had been traveling for days through the jungle, arms screaming in pain with each swing of the machete. “We just need to cross the river.”

“Hopefully the villagers were right about the bridge,” I replied. “If not, we’re going to have a hell of a time getting across.”

We broke into a clearing, and found that the gap was actually a gigantic chasm, water tearing beneath a small rickety bridge that looked to be pre-Incan. A giant snake hung down from a tree branch, seeming to guard the passage forward.

“Will it hold?” he asked, eying the broken slats and fraying rope.

“I have a PhD in archaeology, Jones, not engineering. But my scientific guess is that it belongs in a museum.”

“As do those artifacts,” he said, pulling out his whip.

“So we go onward.”

“Snakes,” Indy muttered, moving past the hanging reptile and on to the bridge. “I hate snakes.”

I shrugged. At least there were no Nazis.