Bridges should unite not part, they should be more beginnings than an end. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, just like it did the day they called:
“Is this Joanne Wilkinson?”, an unfamiliar voice
“The wife of Terence Wilkinson?”
She still recalled how concrete clouds had settled, how in an instant glass can shatter and metal crumble. How a bridge can sometimes be an end.
She bent down and added yet another rose, the last of summer, to the wayside altar she had built..
“Terence, I am coming”, and jumping she felt him calling from the water deep below.
This week I took another melancholy route, to walk along a bridge is sometimes for the sole purpose of committing suicide. Very often it can be prevented if we just take better care of those around us likely to have suicide thoughts.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and many talented writer join every week to write 100 words on the same picture.
September 23, 2015