Back Alley Medieval
In a cavern, by a tavern, extinct for already 500 years, sat an old miner's
bicycle, waiting by lamplight, for the lovely Clementine to come.
"Come to claim it finally, have you?" said the hovering mist, drifting slowly
down cobblestones dripping with millenia.
"No fear of any otherworldly claim should hold you back my Clementine." "No, it's definitely come to you after all this time". "So, what do you intend with said conveyance? Surely you can see it won't hold you up anymore, but definitely go down there....if you can see what I mean?"
"So what precisely IS 'down there'?.... if I may be so bold to ask?" thought Clementine at the shade escorting her through the back alley of medieval Milan. Not expecting an answer, of course, but surprised to find the words appearing in her mind regardless.
"Of course, my dear, if your shoeses are size 69 or 48 then it's going to be to HELL in a bike basket for you!"
"But they aren't! that size I mean! that's got to be gigantic, and my feet are only a size 6 to be sure!" she thought in reply,
but then quickly amended her outspoken thought with crossed fingers to ward off the evil of conversing with the DEAD.
It was, after all forbidden in this village for woman to speak at all, but to think words was not so easily discerned by either living or dead. And so, Clementine stole away the bicycle quite nonchalantly, in the middle of the day, speaking all the while with silent tongue, to the mist that swayed around her feet in accompaniment.
Later the bicycle returned suddenly without any noticeable accompaniment, but with blood on the handlebars, and Clementine's shoes wound tightly through the spokes. Hell hath no fury as bad as it has women who cannot speak. But the bicycle has been tired, and they have spoke.
Writing by Regina Stemberger