Fiction Writing With Nhamo Muchagumisa: A Walk Across The Bridge

The echoes of her cursing voice were still bouncing off the walls, the floor and the ceiling of her bedroom By Nhamo Muchagumisa Darkness settled upon the land, layer upon layer and its particles, like coal dust landed on tree leaves, blades of tufted and runner grass, rock surfaces, fallen tree branches and anything that could be found under the night sky. Natasha sat on a rock, seriously considering the long journey she had started. Maybe it was not that long after all, as there was likely to be nothing that counted for life beyond her last breath. Once the last breath escaped her lungs, the journey was likely to be over. What was holding her back now? She wondered. She had walked the ten kilometres from Dangamvura to this woodland in Dora Dombo to die, not to brainstorm on what possibly lay across the bridge if death was a mere walk across the bridge. The pesticide bottle whose contents she had decided to swallow in a single, determined gulp was there in her handbag, but her appetite for its deadly contents had vanished. The laughter of a hyena in the distance filled her with dread.

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