The fertile fragrance of spring rests on the city floor, beams of sun graffitiing the walls, radiating divinity. As the cigarette creeps out of my pocket and into my lungs, spreading its warmth through the conflux of my clogged, clustered system, I descend. As I look around, the fake light abuses the darkness. Leaving all shadows perfectly splattered on the worn, gum infested floor. Faces appear, some gasping for attention, others drowned by it. This submerged estranged city of a million sinners.

As the metal bus brakes, the doors slide open, without humanity. Autumns remaining desiccated leaves rush through the air, filling the stationary vessel. Leaving the dock alone, unwanted.

4 minutes pass.

A sudden gust comes from above, finally freshening the stench from the heap of compost churning on the bench guarding the exit. Again, floods of leaves swoop through the narrow gap that the door teases open. Tearing themselves as they force past each other 30 minutes pass.

Vessels with original likeness come and pass, changed by the composition of its passengers. White tiled walls left unmarked, rails unscratched.

A deep rattling comes from what seems like a forbidden land to my left, preparing myself to board. I feel a gust. A freshness.

Red walls left unscathed, rails leading downwards

Finally, something to keep the compost company

Story_1: The Hevedles

The white starchy coverings left by the mountainous steam, crowds the heavens. Below its crest, rests a small town, a few patched houses plucked from the closest fairy-tale. Harboured within the kingdoms of the overlooking, the always looking. Never straight, never crooked, just as a beam would, within its field of potential. This collection of roofs, houses a petite town known as 'Hevedles', sitting quite apart from its neighbouring giants, in its own, distinctly private corner.

To magnify again, we see one of these roofs would have 2 chimneys, on opposing sides of the shelter, as if showing distaste after quite the bickering. Each's head pointing to their own side, leaning over the streets, tired from their relentless standing. From afar appearing as a couple of flopping horns from a dishevelled goat, a true obtrusion to the eye. Within said house, a rustle flies out from the top window, nearest the male horn. Followed by a squeezed in 'ouch' and chased by a pampering 'my gosh!'. A young man rushes out, greeting the pale floss above with his bleeding head, a small scratch, just enough to undress that pulsating juice below. From the valleys between his redsoaked fingers, a few droplets make it through the retention, completing their journey, splattering onto the cobbled path. He clearly had no idea where to go, his head drawing circles with such a pace it is surprising it didn't unscrew. In a flash, it seemed to click, his face jerks towards the right, under the property of the left, female horn. With the same pace of his circling, his head clings to his body as it's suddenly been placed amongst the land of the purpose. A gait of steady scampering takes control, somehow withholding his new sense of navigation. This boy, of scarcely refined complexion, was wearing a well oversized deep blue trench coat, holes in every square inch under the elbow, and every other square inch everywhere else. No top seemed to be needed in this time of panic, trousers however, had been changed thrice in that given morning. What was chosen to be, between green and grey, with stripes interceding the alternations. Followed by some flimsy flip-flops, which seemed almost inevitably to be created through some mistaken attempt for a shoe. Their clatter resounding and resonating through the void-full streets.

A bubbly nose protrudes through a blind drawn window, it was the recent widow of Sir Heady, whom funnily enough was not too full of head anymore. Placed under the guillotine less than a week ago on the town square for some misdealt hand regarding his politics. The widow, left with little to mourn and even less to do, found the peeking habit of eye-dropping a common occurrence. She remarks the young man, joined with an oddly twitched smile, as if overjoyed to see some movement in the midst of this mid-afternoon. His clear panic only sent more joy to the morose idleness of the ex-wife, teasing out a chuckle. More of a cackle, but out of due respect we will call it a chuckle. The boys head turns, somehow hearing this between the flips, flops and 50m distance he accumulated in her time of reaction. Within the same instant of his twist, the nose escaped back into the dwelling of her dark room, the smile, yanked by the ends and pulled alongside it.

The confused boy sensed the deep hole burying from behind, not quite catching it this time, but at least preventing its furthering. By this point, enough blood had jumped ship leaving him feeling seldom sane. Luckily enough as his pupils lifted, he saw what he was most avidly looking for, the shaman's quarters. The only other rooftop grounding 2 horns in the village, fortunately for the shaman, his horns were on better terms, both equally breath taken by their counterparts' gaze. Without choice, the boy's legs pushed him up the angled steps, he tripped on the 2nd to last. Landing with his one palm on, flip flop off, he didn't notice, he could crawl further. He noticed a muttering swarmed the surroundings, with a pretence of flurrying battement, thickening the air with a sense of unsworn secrets tempting capture. Suddenly the boys well-tempered legs stop and listened, mesmerised, most probably hypnotised, resting on the upmost step.

Up, way above the clouds rests a sparkling eye, looking at something much more important, making its workings through the flows of nature.