The City of the Damned is a dark place to a visitor, though the inhabitants move about the streets as if they are lit by noonday sun. At every corner, there is a stout oaken pole outfitted with a rough hemp rope. Each rope is wrapped around the neck of a virtuous soul. They hang, eyes bulging, the unlucky few still slowly strangling, and below, the accursed throngs chatter gaily, in utter darkness save for faint traceries of molten rock.
"What light they give!" the passersby say. "So pure and fine!"
The lowering shadows of the city swallow them all.
DP FICTION #5: “Not a Bird” by H.E. Roulo
21 hours ago