Bridge

Midway across the bridge, a few abandoned cars and trucks litter the otherwise empty lanes. A gust of evening wind blows through the girders, parting your hair. Beyond, the burning city squats on glittering inverted reflections of its flames. You sniff the air to catch a scent of fire. To the east is the city, a place of inner discordances and retinal distortions.

You have crossed the river to come to this city? Do you really think you can cross back to a world where a blue sky goes violet in the evening, buttered over with the light of a single, silver moon? -- SRD









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Copyright 1994, 2003 Don P. Mitchell. All rights reserved.