The Graft
She touched the swollen skin around another black eye and regarded the split on her nose.
###
Beyond the balcony, the neon city blinked; impassive rain fell as load-buggies threaded their way through Industria’s spires.
She removed her wedding ring. Then her hand. There was a lot of blood.
He stumbled in late, wearing his weathercock smile, ‘What’s up with your arm?’
She raised the transplanted rivet gun. ‘Time for some changes round here.’
Burning Bread
The bishop hustled the hag off the road.
‘Our Lord has supremacy over mortal matters; predictions don’t
interest Him. Back to your cave!’
A perfect batch, imperfect, see;
The City burns days numbering three.
When bread is scarred in Pudding Lane,
Red the river runs with flame.
Four-fifths will cross the river styx
In sixteen hundred sixty six.
In London, Farriner withdrew his last batch from the oven and cursed; one loaf had split.