by James Hayward
They were there when Pizzaro came, dancing and whirling and wheeling in the evening skies and so he called the city "Los Angeles," the city of angels. When the temples were razed and the last priest put to the sword, their tears fell like a burning rain; their cries and keening filling the air reminded the soldiers of whalesong. His men soon grew hungry in the empty city. Nets were brought forth. When the bones were picked clean, the last morsel devoured, the sleeping jungle beckoned with its promise of yet more wonders to be discovered. So the army moved on, leaving behind them only feathers floating on the morning wind.
James O'Connor is a writer, actor and director living in the middle of Boston. He doesn't blog at all.