Katie Zember

Marcus

Every evening in the city a bottle of blueish black ink would spill and make a mess of the sky. When the ink got thick enough, small stars would punch their way through. It was comical, everything in the city had an aggressive way about it. The pedestrians walked along the concrete sidewalks like they believed the slabs might give way to their heels. The dogs barked from behind raw wooden fences tirelessly, and some believed one day they might bark so long the gates would crumble in defeat. Then there were the buildings. They were hard geometric shapes that stood defiant of the ground. The only character they had was in their square windows and a shade so lifeless it must have been painted to match the city smog.