Apparently, there will be no Sunday Scribblings prompt. So let’s wander over to OneWord.
The word? Sink.
Never mind the depth, she said.
They’d been drinking old fashions at a dive near the canal, a place where they still sold smokes in machines where you pulled a knob and the pack dropped. It was dark and dank and was just her kind of place.
Truthfully, these places drew the life out of him. And he didn’t have much to spare.
Never mind the depth.
He stumbled home with that reverberating in his skull.
And continued to sink, ever after a bath and a call to his mother.
And in the darkness the depth of concern washed over him like a cold wave. For comfort, he cradled the handgun to his chest.