Rain patterns the waterproof hood below which in shadow hangs a yellow visor also rain dotted.
He raises his head to check for a break in the clouds, briefly exposing grey stubbled chin to grey studded light before returning his eyes to the muddy track atop the dyke.
Lack of concentration could end him up in the river.
History is acutely aware of the Heart in his backpack, its beat echoes his own a split-second out-of-synch; the Guardian Shroud connecting him to the Heart ensures that it is exercised despite the absence of the body it was designed to serve.
The front wheel, already slick with claggy mud, slips sideways towards the edge of the dyke and History pushes down on the pedals to straighten his path.
He feels both hearts skip within their respective cages in response to this sudden lurch.
In the distant rain haze the walls of Golgotha Sestri lean dark against the curve of the river.
Hagan will be waiting there with her chest already open.
History manoeuvres an eroded pool of mud, sliding sideways again and clenching jaw. The drive-chain hisses unhappily through the mud collected in the hoop of the gear-changer as a barque slides silently, unnoticed alongside him on the river, sails grey as wolf spider, a bowman stands in silhouette on the bow.
Rain patterns the waterproof hood protecting the optics strapped to his crossbow. Yellow light outlines the figure sandwiched between the dyke and the grey-metal sky. While the barque runs smooth and silent below him, Sacroseti’s iron heel is planted square on the face of the day, confident as he is of his skills, it will nevertheless not do to falter in the shadow of direct orders from the Eye – he knows well enough to keep his mouth shut in the face of those expecting gift horses.
Rain spatters the patina on the rattling copper rooftop while in the room below yellow light washes through the translucent host that contains the waiting ghost of Hagan; dark hope clouding her thoughts. From her perch in the corner cage above the humming Psygeon she looks down on her prone body, chest splayed open and pinned with filigree threads of golden hair to the Psygeon’s spidery hands.
She knows that History will do his best to return her ransomed heart but her previous experience with the twisted logic routines employed by the Eye allow doubt to run its oleaginous hands over her hope and raise goose-bumps on her still remote skin.
He raises his head to check for a break in the clouds, briefly exposing grey stubbled chin to grey studded light before returning his eyes to the muddy track atop the dyke.
Lack of concentration could end him up in the river.
History is acutely aware of the Heart in his backpack, its beat echoes his own a split-second out-of-synch; the Guardian Shroud connecting him to the Heart ensures that it is exercised despite the absence of the body it was designed to serve.
The front wheel, already slick with claggy mud, slips sideways towards the edge of the dyke and History pushes down on the pedals to straighten his path.
He feels both hearts skip within their respective cages in response to this sudden lurch.
In the distant rain haze the walls of Golgotha Sestri lean dark against the curve of the river.
Hagan will be waiting there with her chest already open.
History manoeuvres an eroded pool of mud, sliding sideways again and clenching jaw. The drive-chain hisses unhappily through the mud collected in the hoop of the gear-changer as a barque slides silently, unnoticed alongside him on the river, sails grey as wolf spider, a bowman stands in silhouette on the bow.
Rain patterns the waterproof hood protecting the optics strapped to his crossbow. Yellow light outlines the figure sandwiched between the dyke and the grey-metal sky. While the barque runs smooth and silent below him, Sacroseti’s iron heel is planted square on the face of the day, confident as he is of his skills, it will nevertheless not do to falter in the shadow of direct orders from the Eye – he knows well enough to keep his mouth shut in the face of those expecting gift horses.
Rain spatters the patina on the rattling copper rooftop while in the room below yellow light washes through the translucent host that contains the waiting ghost of Hagan; dark hope clouding her thoughts. From her perch in the corner cage above the humming Psygeon she looks down on her prone body, chest splayed open and pinned with filigree threads of golden hair to the Psygeon’s spidery hands.
She knows that History will do his best to return her ransomed heart but her previous experience with the twisted logic routines employed by the Eye allow doubt to run its oleaginous hands over her hope and raise goose-bumps on her still remote skin.
Tales for an attention-deficit world
1 comment:
I like the images you paint with the words and I like the image you provide as well... nice juxtaposing.
I am catching up on what I have been missing, BTW.
:)
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