The Pale Verdict
The iron breathes. It inhales the fog and exhales blood. You feel it in your teeth. You stand on the wet cobblestones of Ashworth Lane. The rain is not water. It is a fine, gray powder that settles on your shoulders. It tastes of rust and old pennies. The city is a cage of brass and glass. The gears turn above you. They grind against the sky. The sky is the color of a bruise. You hold your...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews