She loved the fog. It softened everything. The industrial wasteland, the tenement houses, the snaky lanes full of disease and danger. Here, on the banks of the river, with the fog thick and masking, she could image herself anywhere, but where she was. The fog made anything seem possible, from a place where the sun shone warm on her skin, to learning her letters and numbers, and how to sign her name. She saw herself as a housewife who stayed home with the happy, thriving children, her husband sober and industrious. Or living in the country, working the land with the smell of nature not filth filling her nostrils. She had once or twice snuck into the better folks’ gardens. She closed her eyes, even though the fog helped with remembering better things, so she could experience those paradises with all her senses. For a few minutes, here on the muddy shores between tide swells, she was back in those gardens, alien worlds that promised so much. She always slipped out again before she was caught and the police sent for. Never again would she be captured and put in a cage or even worse in the workhouse. She heard the squish and suck of feet in the mud. She left her leafy paradise behind to dash for the footings of the wharf, then back out on the streets. Back to her home.
@ shape shifter (27week challenger)