She flew.
Though not on wings.
Crouched astride a gleaming machine, she flew with gasoline.
Flew between lumbering bubbles of steel. Just so many birdcages. And one hawk soaring among them.
They meandered to destinations unknown. While she flew, destination undetermined. Destination unimportant.
Photo by KEVIN CLYDE BERBANO on Unsplash She flew, and she screamed.
She howled into the night. A fierce sound of primal anguish. Impaled with emotion. A beast of passion and turmoil, barely contained.
Foreword: My fiction muscle is horribly rusty. This is the first step towards knocking the rust off and as a result I am not proud of it. The fact it was written with minutes to spare before the deadline does not help. Regardless, I’ll publish it anyway. I might come back and rework the concept. Equally I might not. I am at the mercy of my Muse (she too rides a horse)
The sun hung low in the sky, a red swollen disk. It’s rays stabbed their way through the smog filled air, elbowing the clouds aside. All was quiet within the dilapidated and empty manor that squatted within an expansive but overgrown lawn. The soot covered brickwork was streaked with moisture, and the roof sagged in places where nagging rot ate away at the thick timber beams. It was set far back from the bustle of London behind towering hedges and ornate ironwork.