FARRAGO

Eleanor pauses in her tracks, sucking in a breath as she turns not to face the man, but the arched windows that line the passage. 
Aquitaine stretches out before her, its beauty incomparable to filthy, cramped Paris.

Bonjour, mon amour! I think perhaps you are the muse I’ve been searching for.

The first child born to a god brought the moon back.

The tiger awakens as you grip the bars and use them to propel you into a 360-degree jump.
Beads of sweat nestle on your neck and your heart swells in its cage.

He tells you to meet him on level six of that car park tucked behind the shops. There must be nowhere else to park at this time of night. You don’t realise it’s the rooftop.