Running through the streets of the inner city concrete jungle hill, he suddenly found himself imagining the place some three or four centuries earlier; turning at the corner of Leafy Forest Street and Spring Leap Drive, it wasn’t difficult.
It struck him how little things had changed even though everything was different.
Closing his eyes for a second or two, he pictured himself leaping over stones and fallen branches, hunted by woodland robbers with feathers in their caps, and bows and arrows ready, the village’s collected taxes dangling in a leather pouch from his hand, rather than from his former friends, and their locked and loaded semiautomatics, with the taped up stash of drugs they were willing to kill him for.
Originally published on Medium.
Photo from Pixabay.