#1
A bit from a novel I'm writing. I just started. Hopefully it works out. Please let me know what you think about the imagery and writing style.


Old men smile and tell stories of prophetic visions gifted to them as young men. They say before the city became what it is now, you could still see the stars at night, and feel the heat of the sun beat on your brow. They say that when looked upon from distance, you could see the concrete coffin closing in on the heavens, sealing the underworks of the city in eternal darkness. They say you could picture in your mind the twisted labyrinth it would one day become just as crisply as you could picture your own children.

Those of us who can read know these old men to be liars. Whether it is gullibility or some reckless hope still alive within us, we cannot shame ourselves with the truth of it. We sit around them, huddled like the children, listening so intently you can almost hear their hearts rattling in their cages. No one but Noah could live beyond our Great City's entombment.

We lay still in the seventh circle of Hell, the lowest depths of this great, ancient beast. Our children are born onto funeral pyres more often then mangers. The light in their mother's eyes follow briskly, but their father's smolder like unkempt fires.