WHERE WRITERS DWELL. MEMORY OR IMAGINATION, CAN THEY OR OTHERS FOR CERTAIN TELL?
She stood in a puddle in the centre of the bridge, her umbrella blown inside out. Perhaps the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, she was also the most bedraggled. Other people stomped on by spraying water in all directions, some workers, some spenders, some lovers, some freaks and not one offered her help.
The girl, forlorn to the point of devastated, brushed aside auburn locks that swept straight back into her alabaster face and wept. Like a naiad, she looked to haunt the puddle she stood in unable to move away, unwilling to leave, too sad to even raise her head. Somehow, it seemed more than a bad day, worse than the weather, an accumulation of that thing we call life and she just couldn’t take anymore.
I had to do something. Pivotal moments are few and far between in life, always important, and I feared if she went…
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