Dark grey paws pressed the cobble stones.
Lightning pierced the quiet street of Farrington Dale; rain was constant, visible when it hit the cobbled road and seeped into the cracks. It left its trace with a reflective shine in contrast to a dull evening.
A mangy looking dog, as tall as a seven year old, its fur bedraggled and clumped, strolled along the stones with its eyes partly closed to shield itself from the rain, its mouth agape. It was the only living creature to be seen as mists rolled over the town.
The dog’s neck was cuffed in a thick iron band with spikes splayed at intervals. Etched into the metal were the words ‘Master of Seth Realm’. She approached each and every building along the solitary street enquiring as if she knew something, as if possibly she would find some shelter or food, but it was more than that.
She’d stop, sometimes both front paws on the first step, nose to the iron door, and then on to the next. Several buildings later, a shop front with small windows made from rough hewn, coloured glass, impossible to see through, held her attention. This place was different. Instead of a simple glance, she lowered her tall body; her rear end hitting the cold stones, the rain still flying in her eyes while she concentrated on the inner workings of the shop.
Her head turned, as if listening, to and fro, and then she lowered the front of her body slowly as her legs moved forward. She stayed - her head didn’t drop, her stare without submission all night.
The morning came with the rise of the sun that spread warmth across the harsh man-made structures. The morning dew curled up like a frigid girl, slowly departing, leaving only the lingering smell of wet night’s tales. The dog sat ever so vigilant facing the shop, her head not resting the entire time.
Some people were up and about, locals, a traveler or two with horse and cart, the rickety sounds of wheel and hooves echoing in tandem. There was no sound coming from the shop and nobody to check on the dog, letting it inside or welcoming it home into a warm corner near a tumbling fire place.
A stonemason on his way to work passed by the beast without noticing, almost kicking it inadvertently. What was she waiting for? What could she notice that nobody else bothered to discover?
From the bottom of the street, a small terrier wandered about the streets, but without the focus of the giant mongrel that still remained at bay. The terrier lifted its leg on everything that stood out, but it didn’t notice the other dog as it got closer, and when it was so close it seemed he would collide with her, but instead he moved toward the step of the house and lifted his leg once more with only a trickle of pee to mark his territory.
The little fella kept going all without acknowledgement that there was any other dog about and disappeared down an alley.
Behind the door of the shop where the mongrel sat at attention, noises could be heard, but not by just anybody, in fact only the dog could hear what was happening inside. The display behind the window was empty except for one basket that held two babies. One of the babies was silent, his green eyes bright with life, his chubby hands at ease while his brother screamed for attention, his voice high pitched but not loud enough to penetrate the stone walls of the shop.
The shop was closed and had been closed for a number of years. The babies had been placed in the shop window through a back door by a tall, dark haired beauty who was unable to care for her babies, and thought the only way to help them was to give someone else the opportunity to provide a safe home for them. She placed them down, kissed them on the forehead, taking one last look at them before departing, tears and emotions convulsed through her body as she crept away like a criminal.
Although the shop was always closed as if not a skerrick of business had ever been done by the dilapidated structure, it was not true. The shop was known far and wide as a refuge, an exchange – a place whereby, without guilt or emotion, a baby could be left and picked up by those looking, who could not have their own children.
Lightning pierced the quiet street of Farrington Dale; rain was constant, visible when it hit the cobbled road and seeped into the cracks. It left its trace with a reflective shine in contrast to a dull evening.
A mangy looking dog, as tall as a seven year old, its fur bedraggled and clumped, strolled along the stones with its eyes partly closed to shield itself from the rain, its mouth agape. It was the only living creature to be seen as mists rolled over the town.
The dog’s neck was cuffed in a thick iron band with spikes splayed at intervals. Etched into the metal were the words ‘Master of Seth Realm’. She approached each and every building along the solitary street enquiring as if she knew something, as if possibly she would find some shelter or food, but it was more than that.
She’d stop, sometimes both front paws on the first step, nose to the iron door, and then on to the next. Several buildings later, a shop front with small windows made from rough hewn, coloured glass, impossible to see through, held her attention. This place was different. Instead of a simple glance, she lowered her tall body; her rear end hitting the cold stones, the rain still flying in her eyes while she concentrated on the inner workings of the shop.
Her head turned, as if listening, to and fro, and then she lowered the front of her body slowly as her legs moved forward. She stayed - her head didn’t drop, her stare without submission all night.
The morning came with the rise of the sun that spread warmth across the harsh man-made structures. The morning dew curled up like a frigid girl, slowly departing, leaving only the lingering smell of wet night’s tales. The dog sat ever so vigilant facing the shop, her head not resting the entire time.
Some people were up and about, locals, a traveler or two with horse and cart, the rickety sounds of wheel and hooves echoing in tandem. There was no sound coming from the shop and nobody to check on the dog, letting it inside or welcoming it home into a warm corner near a tumbling fire place.
A stonemason on his way to work passed by the beast without noticing, almost kicking it inadvertently. What was she waiting for? What could she notice that nobody else bothered to discover?
From the bottom of the street, a small terrier wandered about the streets, but without the focus of the giant mongrel that still remained at bay. The terrier lifted its leg on everything that stood out, but it didn’t notice the other dog as it got closer, and when it was so close it seemed he would collide with her, but instead he moved toward the step of the house and lifted his leg once more with only a trickle of pee to mark his territory.
The little fella kept going all without acknowledgement that there was any other dog about and disappeared down an alley.
Behind the door of the shop where the mongrel sat at attention, noises could be heard, but not by just anybody, in fact only the dog could hear what was happening inside. The display behind the window was empty except for one basket that held two babies. One of the babies was silent, his green eyes bright with life, his chubby hands at ease while his brother screamed for attention, his voice high pitched but not loud enough to penetrate the stone walls of the shop.
The shop was closed and had been closed for a number of years. The babies had been placed in the shop window through a back door by a tall, dark haired beauty who was unable to care for her babies, and thought the only way to help them was to give someone else the opportunity to provide a safe home for them. She placed them down, kissed them on the forehead, taking one last look at them before departing, tears and emotions convulsed through her body as she crept away like a criminal.
Although the shop was always closed as if not a skerrick of business had ever been done by the dilapidated structure, it was not true. The shop was known far and wide as a refuge, an exchange – a place whereby, without guilt or emotion, a baby could be left and picked up by those looking, who could not have their own children.
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