fiction

The performer swayed against the violin’s rhythm, pushing against its melody. She sang despite herself, despite all of them. Her contralto voice echoed through the disused station lobby, over the everyday bustle of the shanty town, but she was ignored. She sang anyway. The people of Syndicate Street Station had heard her many times, and they grew weary of her maudlin basso. Except for Deacon Welles.

The bus stop held no meaningful shelter for Douglas as he shivered in the brisk, winter air. Its Neo-Deco concrete structure dwarfed the man twofold, and snow had piled up around it. Brass reliefs of gods past were inset into the stone. Their chariots and halos, their feats of courage and unrequited love.