Russell: Thinking of Morgan

I was daydreaming again. Thick, soft hair like a horse’s mane as black as night... Unclouded yet serious eyes, as brilliant a blue as cobalt. Handsomeness in those sharp, defined features, cut out of solid rock but aesthetically pleasing all the same.

‘Oh, Morgan, where are you now?’

I had told him, about a century ago, that I was over him, that I was going to stop trying, that he would never persuade me to change my mind if he became attracted me in the following millennia, but I’d known deep inside that I was only saying these things to try to convince myself that he wasn’t worth it, that my time could be spent more wisely, that my life could be better than this. But no other man had ever quite compared to Mog.

Perhaps I was shallow and he just happened to be the handsomest man alive. Perhaps the fact that he hadn’t told anyone my secret had made him special to me in a time of such hatred to anything which didn’t conform to the ‘norm’. Or perhaps I had cast a spell on myself - using irreversible magic - to make him stay in my head every second of every minute of every hour of every day. Whatever it was, it had a hold on me still. And there was no way to deny it.


I stood at the bus stop, waiting for my ride into the unknown. I had always been attracted to journeys to unfamiliar territory. While a bus trip across a random part of the country was not as romantic, it still held the anticipation of new friends made, new landscapes seen, new experiences had. I waited with my sports bag style bag containing, amongst other bits and bobs, my favourite book of spells, slung over my shoulder.

After a few minutes, a bus came along. I paid no attention to the destination shown at the top of the forward facing window and stepped on. I paid my fare and turned to find a seat... and was met by an impossible sight.

Sitting on the back row, staring blankly out of a window, was...


The End

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