Angels
A city
Josette traverses a deserted street, stirring up pigeons that flutter around her in the wintry air. The wind whips her knit scarf like a streamer as she struggles with grocery bags whose seams threaten to give way. Around her buildings rise like giant tombstones: stark, crumbling and unforgiving.
Her father's words come to mind as she glances over the deserted streets: money is useless without one to give it; no man may be monarch in a kingdom of one, without services to collect.
Though this city is not of one, she feels gravely alone. A fleeting image crosses her mind: a narrow, chiseled face framed in dark, close-cropped hair. Pain clenches her heart momentarily as she pushes the image of Lysander from her mind, but not too soon. When the wind comes again, it sweeps right through her, as though she is a ghost.
A flash of white ahead catches her attention, a fleeting glimpse of bare foot. She wonders who could be so crazy as to wander the city barefoot in winter and stops to stare, despite her burgeoning grocery bags. Before the figure ducks into an alleyway, she turns and stares at Josette with hollow black eyes that beckon and repel her simultaneously.
Who are you? Josette asks silently, as though the glance has put a telepathic link between them. But there is no further trace of her.
Josette follow the figure several paces, caught by the empathy in her eyes which however briefly distracted her from pain. Her groceries shift dangerously as she does so, reminding her that her bags could spill at any moment. The wind sweeps through her again; this time she trembles all over, her resistance worn.
Josette traverses a deserted street, stirring up pigeons that flutter around her in the wintry air. The wind whips her knit scarf like a streamer as she struggles with grocery bags whose seams threaten to give way. Around her buildings rise like giant tombstones: stark, crumbling and unforgiving.
Her father's words come to mind as she glances over the deserted streets: money is useless without one to give it; no man may be monarch in a kingdom of one, without services to collect.
Though this city is not of one, she feels gravely alone. A fleeting image crosses her mind: a narrow, chiseled face framed in dark, close-cropped hair. Pain clenches her heart momentarily as she pushes the image of Lysander from her mind, but not too soon. When the wind comes again, it sweeps right through her, as though she is a ghost.
A flash of white ahead catches her attention, a fleeting glimpse of bare foot. She wonders who could be so crazy as to wander the city barefoot in winter and stops to stare, despite her burgeoning grocery bags. Before the figure ducks into an alleyway, she turns and stares at Josette with hollow black eyes that beckon and repel her simultaneously.
Who are you? Josette asks silently, as though the glance has put a telepathic link between them. But there is no further trace of her.
Josette follow the figure several paces, caught by the empathy in her eyes which however briefly distracted her from pain. Her groceries shift dangerously as she does so, reminding her that her bags could spill at any moment. The wind sweeps through her again; this time she trembles all over, her resistance worn.