“You can’t fish here”, said the frail and withered old man, “It’s sacred ground”.
Jim ignored him and ate another prune from the mission fruit pack that he had brought with him.
In the distance a rumble of heavy unicorn dreams shattered across a hazed landscape and a million miniature lights propelled themselves across the night sky. Barely visible from the battered van where Sally lay, she held close the memory of Leningrad and he cacophony of ancient spirits resounded in her head.
Here had been better. Better than any foreign clime. Better than the heated exchanges she witnessed all those years before, but somehow the shadows still came at night when the city slept and her mind awoke. A tortured history had imbedded a hatred and torment that no unicorn dream could quash. This was better, but so different…..
