Spinning slowly to see magnificent spires from so far down, as ghosts slip through the spaces between my hands like the breeze. Empty now, I can picture cartwheels in my head and I wouldn’t touch a thing. But people were here once, uncomfortably so, shoving each other to claim some space for themselves if only to sneak a glimpse of the hideous glory.
I learned about it in school. Spirals, gothic daggers piercing a sky as souls made of stone claw out in awe, begging to fly free in what it means to be human. A dark shadow casts its net, cascading down in a nightmare where only the feeling remains.
It pervades no matter how much we wish it had never been thought into existence. By one, and then so many. A black jutting spiral dripped in red was here once, each wave in the sharp wind tainted the air that pours into our lungs; staining love. But it’s been some time now and it’s gone.
And besides, across the street are cute little markets, delicate enough to be blown over by just a taste of the wolf’s wind. Picturesque for picking honey, bringing beauty to backyard gardens, perfectly packaged in the candor. Just what is wanted for an afternoon stroll where hands are held, and icy beers keep cold in the drip of the fountain, frosting over our minds so we can almost forget.
What happened here.
Allison Jae writes 