Midnight on the underground, and we gather – whispering, chittering, rustling, in all our different forms of darkness.
Soon we’ll ascend, to swoop and play in the city streets, dancing past empty windows, leaving no reflection in the dirty puddles, seeking our different forms of pleasure.
They are waiting for us, in night-clubs, in sleazy bars, on street corners. They just don’t know it yet.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales. Photo by Samuel Wong via Unsplash.
Last night I dreamed I rode a bull, through a land of myth. A black bull, that sweated, stank and snorted beneath me.
I rode past a girl garlanding a white bull with flowers; past a heifer with human eyes lowing sadly; past a woman with a cow’s head and open hands; past a queen suckling a bull-headed baby, until I reached a woman with wild red hair and a knotted crown, who looked me up and down, and handed me a spear of iron and bog oak.
I woke up clutching the spear to my chest: I’ve carried it all day, walking noiseless through the forest of the city, knowing I carry death in my hands.
photo by Jacco Rienks via Unsplash
prompt by Sonya at Three Line Tales.