From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Sound
The rhythmic clatter of horse hooves on cobblestone is suddenly fractured by the sharp, metallic cracks of a fugitive’s revolver echoing off the brick facades. Over the frantic shrill of police whistles, a newsboy’s holler competes with the tinny, distant melody of "Ida, Sweet as Apple Cider" drifting from a nearby open window. I crouch near a shop stall, my fingers stained waxy and bright by a new pack of Crayola Crayons I’d been admiring, their industrial scent clashing with the heavy smell of coal smoke. Despite the violence unfolding down the street, the sergeant stumbling past looks fit as a fiddle until the red bloom on his tunic betrays the grim history we are currently etching into the pavement.