A lone morning. A torchlit carriageway over green cobble topped with moss. A woodpecker's, or two... no. A hummingbird, singing its favourite melody whilst the fox scourers the ground level for salvage. The grass white, and the leaves black, the tree bark probably. And then stands the Spire, theirs, in all its shimmering and shimmying glory, a potent pesticide repellent and a great central capital for marvelous magic. A calligraphers circus. A gnome (i think) before the entrance, facing you. Its eyes don't waver, nor do they blink, he sees nothing and all. The entrance isn't there, its everywhere because your world is spinning? Why? A stupid question, you addict. Why not?
Did it feel warm? Did it lift your worries temporarily? Are your ears ringing or is everything silent? Cacophony or Euphony. Fun. No. Dread be gone, the fly is here. Spiral. Red, white.
Fall.
Did it feel warm?
About the Creator
Dabdid
I am an aspiring writer who loves to experiment. All my pieces are raw and unedited and i'd appreciate any and all feedback. I hope something here resonates.
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