By Chris White (Your Call)
Don’t smile.
The priestess’ words echo through me, as my footsteps echo, bouncing from the stone cobbles, from the stone walls, from hidden, stony faces.
Keep walking.
There is no-one to smile at. No door stands open.
All were slammed shut, they may not look at us.
There is nothing else to do but walk.
The city despises us.
The city needs us.
Red robes define me, define my sisters.
We shuffle, a crimson tide, leaving apartments as islands.
We shuffle, scratching libations and curses into the stonework, pasting blood-red mortar into the cracks – each morning the messages are erased.
Each night marked by snuffling, grunting.
The city needs us.
Don’t smile.
The priestess’ words echo through me, as my footsteps echo, bouncing from the stone cobbles, from the stone walls, from hidden, stony faces.
Keep walking.
There is no-one to smile at. No door stands open.
All were slammed shut, they may not look at us.
There is nothing else to do but walk.
The city despises us.
The city needs us.
Red robes define me, define my sisters.
We shuffle, a crimson tide, leaving apartments as islands.
We shuffle, scratching libations and curses into the stonework, pasting blood-red mortar into the cracks – each morning the messages are erased.
Each night marked by snuffling, grunting.
The city needs us.