Prochorus

Started writing this last night, inspired by John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. I think it's going to become a short story in a series of short stories. It could end up being a novel.

Prochorus is sitting on a bench by the road. There’s a notebook in his lap. He’s waiting for a tram.
A heavy weight hangs between his shoulders and his soul. An anchor.
People hurry past Prochorus as he sits on the bench. But it doesn’t seem right to put it that way. He is surrounded by the people, the traffic, the cables strung overhead, the towers of images, the distant clouds. But all of it seems distant.
Prochorus looks through the notebook. It is his book of clues and hints. Things that have been niggling away at the back of his mind. Photographs, newspaper clippings, scribbled ideas, scraps of photocopied records. A feather. A map. A dry leaf.
He slumps.
‘What do I do?’
The old woman sitting next to Prochorus suggests several options. He does not find them particularly helpful.

I'm posting the novel as I write it, here.