Paul Martyn

Locket

A forgotten city, long from now; could be any month, any day, almost any time between sunrise and sunset. Clouds the colour of faded renaissance paintings blotted out the sun, leaving only a faint shadowy disc. A sense of pressure hung in the air, humidity threatening to worsen and turn into rain. The sound of restless crowds, of Militia boots falling in step, heralding another patrol, another raid, another skirmish. Trash lined the sidewalks and crumbled underfoot, blooming horrid, previously undiscovered odours.