lemon wedge

A lady carrying a heap of white bags stopped to say, "your purple moon is fading". She walked off into the fray and I rubbed my tattoo. I was locked in a morbid spell cast by a vagabond witch. That's not where I like to be. Stale air. Rat shit popcorn. That kind of thing. I opened a small wooden door in the brick wall beside me and hunched through a curious archway. Inside, a sickly yellow bulb dangled, barely illuminating a small ceremonial mound of raisins. The significance of this particular type of fruit mound was not lost on me. I carved a protective rune into the floor with a bone and bid the cursed room a fond adieu. Alas, the spectral tomb would have none of it. It was as if the door I had come in by was never there. Only bricks. And then a silky gray flower mashed up through the floor scattering the raisins and from the flower's mouth the sounds of the swedish jahaina swept me through the wall and away into a clear blue river under a hot purple moon.