“Wicked are the men who dream and do nothing!”
The voice rang out above the early morning din of the market place. The accusation wasn't directed at me but in me it found a home and dug deep.
Before I knew it, my sandals had come to a stop in front of the stone podium and I looked up at the woman preaching. I didn't feel I could accurately describe her as pretty or ugly. Brown hair framed a face, that I could only call stern, in ringlets. Her eyes searched from aisle to aisle, person to person, and moved on. Her face carried none of the blemishes of youth nor the lines of age. The white of her toga was trimmed with gold meanders. She held the pose as if a statute, arms were held outward, hands open. She was muscular for a woman and each arm had a pair of long horizontal scars below her shoulder.
I pitched a coin up to her. The ringing caught her attention, causing a bare foot to snake out and pulled it beneath her.
"You sir! Be ye wicked?" she asked.
"By your standards I am. Is there a cure?"
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
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Comments (1 so far!)
It is true that you're only really free if you can act on your dreams, not just dream them. But I guess you've got to be a hardcore cultist preacher to equate a lack of freedom with wickedness.
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