Moving Cities

He stood at the bus stop, his body shuddering to the dull thud, thud, thud of the city beneath him. He glanced round at the other commuters, going about their lives, seemingly immune to the changes he was experiencing.

The bus turned left, then right, then left again – different from yesterday – down a side street that used to be a solid wall. The drivers must know, and yet they drove merrily on, seemingly oblivious that the path they chose would once have been through concrete, metal, stone.

That night he dreamed vivid dreams again – the two pairs of twins in their dark suits visiting the flat he was minding for a friend. Twice the crossbow bolts flew deep into his thighs as they held him down on the floor, over and over the sharp stabbing pain as the knife pierced his lower back. Lying in an ever-growing pool of blood on that shabby, carpeted floor, straining to hear the distant thud, thud, thud of the city beneath him.

View this story's 1 comments.