These rain-soaked streets are not my home. Sometimes my mind floods with memories as I walk, like I’ve had too much coffee. Fragments of familiar buildings and the ghosts of my friends, rearranged around me.
This place is like anywhere, there are all kinds of people, but the only ones who understand are the ones who are also not from here.
In the centre of town there’s a park – it has wavy grass, serene trees, a big stone cross. I sit underneath and feel whatever I feel. I’m on my way there now. Would you like to join me?
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Mirror Lake Fiction 
I like this. A good beginning. Love the line “This place is like anywhere, there are all kinds of people, but the only ones who understand are the ones who are also not from here.” I get a clearer sense from that line than even the first because it hints at the unrest and therefore gets my imagination going.
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Thanks, Kathy 🙂 I was trying to imagine what it would be like to be a migrant. It’s good that it got you imagining too!
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