(no subject)
There's three of us. I don't know where we're travelling but I know we must do it urgently. There's also the most adorable chubby puppy I have ever seen, brown with a round face and even rounder eyes that melt you to the ground. We're accompanied by a white horse with the most beautiful white hair I have ever seen.
We enter the city through a gate. I don't know what city or even the general location of the city but it feels partly European with the narrow road between two sides of the street, on both of which sit lodging. The road is stone paved and there are some fires in lanterns just at the gate as it rolls downward behind us. Something in the deafening sound as it hits the ground settles me.
I shift a books of Irish folk tales in my satchel as it sticks out, pushing it down in the bag and putting the pup in there, letting it open so he can calmly look out, observing the street around him. He presses his cold nose against my hand. The horse walks gracefully beside me, his shoes making virtually no sound, almost as if they are lined with a layer of cloth.
The old man, my escort, with the handlebar mustache and the kind brown eyes, smiled anxiously back at me, checking to see if I am still there. His dress reminds me of an American from the midwest with his jeans and flannel button-up. His brown boots carry him steadily onward down the street.
Behind me, there is a young man, mid 20s I would say with jet black hair eyes that catch everything from a speck of dust to the wrinkles in a flag waving over a doorway. I start to walk under an awning and he sternly pushes me away, point to a tiny, unnoticable tear in the red cover and then to a post bent outward.
The young man turns to look about him and whistles the quietest whistle I have ever heard in my life. The older man doesn't even turn to him. Instead, he immediately turns left and takes us down an even more narrow alley, one where I can touch the walls on both sides. I don't like this. I begin to feel like a mouse with a hawk looming overhead, waiting on him to drop down and end my short existence.
I stick my arms out and allow my fingertips to graze the walls, taking in their rough stone textures and the chiseled and weathered cracks among them. Another soft whistle. I turn around and he shakes his head, pointing to the pads of his fingertips and then pretending to place them on the walls. Fingerprints, got it.
After a long and agonizing 15 minutes of claustrophobia, we emerge from the narrow passageway into yet another silent street, this one with a fire burning. I sit down on a wooden crate and let the puppy out so that he can relieve himself. I don't have a name for him. I suppose I didn't think they would let me keep him long enough.
We enter the city through a gate. I don't know what city or even the general location of the city but it feels partly European with the narrow road between two sides of the street, on both of which sit lodging. The road is stone paved and there are some fires in lanterns just at the gate as it rolls downward behind us. Something in the deafening sound as it hits the ground settles me.
I shift a books of Irish folk tales in my satchel as it sticks out, pushing it down in the bag and putting the pup in there, letting it open so he can calmly look out, observing the street around him. He presses his cold nose against my hand. The horse walks gracefully beside me, his shoes making virtually no sound, almost as if they are lined with a layer of cloth.
The old man, my escort, with the handlebar mustache and the kind brown eyes, smiled anxiously back at me, checking to see if I am still there. His dress reminds me of an American from the midwest with his jeans and flannel button-up. His brown boots carry him steadily onward down the street.
Behind me, there is a young man, mid 20s I would say with jet black hair eyes that catch everything from a speck of dust to the wrinkles in a flag waving over a doorway. I start to walk under an awning and he sternly pushes me away, point to a tiny, unnoticable tear in the red cover and then to a post bent outward.
The young man turns to look about him and whistles the quietest whistle I have ever heard in my life. The older man doesn't even turn to him. Instead, he immediately turns left and takes us down an even more narrow alley, one where I can touch the walls on both sides. I don't like this. I begin to feel like a mouse with a hawk looming overhead, waiting on him to drop down and end my short existence.
I stick my arms out and allow my fingertips to graze the walls, taking in their rough stone textures and the chiseled and weathered cracks among them. Another soft whistle. I turn around and he shakes his head, pointing to the pads of his fingertips and then pretending to place them on the walls. Fingerprints, got it.
After a long and agonizing 15 minutes of claustrophobia, we emerge from the narrow passageway into yet another silent street, this one with a fire burning. I sit down on a wooden crate and let the puppy out so that he can relieve himself. I don't have a name for him. I suppose I didn't think they would let me keep him long enough.