by David J. Wing
The Minotaur, desperate to crush us under cloven hoofs, charged. Even here, in the seventh you could smell, over the sulphur and the pain – the need, the abject passion for violence. Smoke bellowed from those nostrils, red and thick, filling the air like a mist. Muscles, hidden under grotesque hair flexed and fought. Those horns, protruding feet beyond face thrust and narrowly missed. Virgil’s push and our leap onward, into the Outer Ring, to see murder on faces.
January 30, 2017 at 6:04 pm
I enter David Wing’s zeroflash monthly comps – won one last year- hurrah! he’s very supportive and it’s a cool monthly deadline to write to- like this piece of his,read Virgil as a teenager doing A levels- liked the sense of drive and power to this piece.
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May 10, 2018 at 12:52 am
I enjoyed this, David. Nice to read more of your work after you’ve been reading mine off-and-on the last ten months or so!
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