A letter by Nina Proudknuckle: Under the wooden bus stop sofa

The day hadn’t reached middle age before I received my diagnosis. I had been walking in a daze on the streets masked by pollution which usually hurried my journey back home.

But not today. My questions had been answered by the news relayed upon me by my doctor; a kindly woman whom I look up to more than I do any other peer in this horrid city.

I took a turn without looking and bumped into a figure wearing a rather large copper-green coat which felt like mushrooms.

The winter had bitten my senses numb but this figure radiated heat like my cup of coffee.

After excusing my blind error to this shadowy stranger and stepped aside out of the way; a loud crash from behind sent me rolling into the puddle of water over a blocked sewage drain.

I was surprised by its depth, flailing my arms and screaming for help; I attempted reaching out to grab the sidewalk curve but all was in vain as the water I was in was sucked down by some strange coincidence or other and the mid-day sun light disappeared beyond my head as I descended into an unknown so black it muted my very thoughts.


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