In the beginning of the world, there was a bird, small and ugly, waddling on the ground, unaware it had wings. It sang to the blue skies, voice soaring and dipping, longing and magic-infused in every note. This went on for days and then weeks
She passes through the labyrinth of brick walls and bright markings. She speaks to no one, for she is alone with her mission. A black feather drifts across her path, carried by the breeze from vents blowing greasy smells. At the labyrinth’s heart is a
There’s a magic in them alleys. Where the moon fills with blood, and the margins of the city seep through cracks in the cement, opening the way for other things. How do I know? I’ve seen things; felt the whoosh of air from beating wings
