Monday, March 24, 2008

Above the Riztkoff

Andry Illivitch looked out onto the skyline of Moscow, grey and cold in November.  He did not notice the grey nor the cold.  The sunrise was just beginning, but pink and orange licking at the bottom of the low winter cloud cover did not catch his attention.  Andry sucked in a lungful of cold soot-flavored air and strained his eyes, looking out into the city again, down the cracked expanse of Avenue Riztkoff.  Like the city that surrounded the Avenue, Andry Illivitch had once been a giant of a man -- barrel chested and strong like the Ox he'd cared for in his youth.  A twitch in his chest set Andry coughing again, a horrible sound that would have brought worried looks and sympathetic eyes had he not been alone on his perch above Riztkoff.


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