Things driving young women to suicide, various pressures and arranged marriages and violence and so on, were the subject of the article I read on the train back to Toronto from Ottawa at the beginning of spring. I read the article then looked out the window on the east side of the train: the waves of Lake Ontario were high and brown, breaking kilometres of mud along the shore. Further out the water turned silver under the sun. I picked up the newspaper and read the last part of the article again. Then I read the first part once more. I could not imagine the young women. I could not imagine their lives, their different lives all rushing to the same conclusion, as if in a funnel. I folded the newspaper and put it down on the seat beside mine, which was empty, and released the lever to incline my own seat, and looked out the window again. We were passing a factory, or some building of that kind. There did not seem to be anyone working, but there were a dozen or so men lined up along a small wharf, holding fishing poles. They were standing with their backs to the train.
'MUD'
Micro-Fiction by Caleb JW Brasset
Things driving young women to suicide, various pressures and arranged marriages and violence and so on, were the subject of the article I read on the train back to Toronto from Ottawa at the beginning of spring. I read the article then looked out the window on the east side of the train: the waves of Lake Ontario were high and brown, breaking kilometres of mud along the shore. Further out the water turned silver under the sun. I picked up the newspaper and read the last part of the article again. Then I read the first part once more. I could not imagine the young women. I could not imagine their lives, their different lives all rushing to the same conclusion, as if in a funnel. I folded the newspaper and put it down on the seat beside mine, which was empty, and released the lever to incline my own seat, and looked out the window again. We were passing a factory, or some building of that kind. There did not seem to be anyone working, but there were a dozen or so men lined up along a small wharf, holding fishing poles. They were standing with their backs to the train.
