Flash Fiction: Sanna Kannisto
© Sanna Kannisto
Today is my 187th day of solitude.
When I woke up this morning the air was thick. It curled around me in pale wisps, like smoke. I find this weather rather comforting; like a foggy arm embracing me. The leaden mist prods my memories. For a moment I feel the sticky warmth of the crowded train platform I used to wait on after work many summers ago. Now however, the musty smell is that of decomposing plants, rather than the rotten sweet smell of those who once crowded the train’s platform.
I decided to wear my green rain jacket over my standard pants and boots, this morning, but now I regret it. The charcoal-colored clouds of the morning have broken and I am warm under the jacket. I speculate that I am about three miles away from my home. The muddy water I walk though feels thinner than I am used to. I bend down and run my small green net through it; the reflection of trees glittering across the water’s surface fractures. Today the water only reaches my mid calves. I pour the contents of the net into the plastic container I found a few weeks back. Holding it up to my face, I find it to be troublingly clear.
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