Flin Flon

This is the opening to a story I am thinking about writing regarding a smallish city in Northern Manitoba where I have spent a couple of years.

When it rains here, depression settles down like a hazy grey blanket, nestling in between the houses and filling the potholes in the road and cracks in the overgrowing sidewalks. An urgent poverty ebbs like the surrounding lakes and grips your heart lightly, licking it’s lips as you walk past, daring you to toss a coin in its cup. The houses here crumble, the ever-present moisture, leaking from whisky bottles, miner’s sweat, and melting snow help crack their foundations . A town that sees too much winter. 

One road leads through it, a handful of gas stations arbitrarily scattered among the rocks and the glorified ponds of the Canadian shield. A Walmart monopolizes one end of the city, poorly complimented by the main street, littered with a gaggle of Mom-and-Pop shops. 

The days spill in together, much like a single hour that never ends but then a month has gone by.  

Author's Note

How does this make you feel?

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

The things you gotta tell yourself to be a flin flon bomber.

[Dhanadeepa Dixit]

Whoa. The opening grabs you. And gives you an amazing sense of where exactly you are at the time. And if it was meant to evoke sadness, it did that very well.

Will be looking forward to its continuation!