A Season of Flies


Panic on the streets of London

Spells slid over his cinnibar and bear fat greased skin. The old man cried for help, cried for his god.

“Child please, it is not too late to turn from this path.” He was on his back now, scrambling backward, hamstrung and bleeding badly, desperate to make it to the receptacle. But no blood clung to the wicked knife that made the cuts. The blade does not slide effortlessly, it grates along the bone and shred tissue.

“There is no hell awaiting you, you may seek forgiveness no matter the crime!” The old man’s pleas fall upon deaf ears.

With his other hand he holds a bottle of quicksilver two fingers outstretched weave symbols in the air.

Death. Know. Pattern. Compel.

“You left handed bastard. I’ll not let my shade be tortured.” The old rabbi chants in Ashkenazi Hebrew, calling on his god and to the strange keepers of the underworld, to spirit his ghost away, offering essence and knowledge and power, a desperate bartering.

In three swift gestures the Reaper weaves Fray. And the link is broken.

The old man is slow from blood loss. He feebly bats away the bottle of mercury, but it returns, a strong hand holds holds his jaw open as the vessel tips. The shade slips from his lips, and into the glass bottle with its plastic lid, warded in sharpie.

In a few hours the body will be found, gone to the flies, the first maggots will be crawling out. The police will call it a hate crime, an act of terrorism. The first of his cabal to find him is the girl, she cried. She cried all the way from the ambulance arriving to the crime scene team finishing. She cried more when the christian came. They cried together then, over chips and cans of coke. And when they were empty of tears, they returned to their sanctum, called the Rabbi’s son and went to work.


Sonnet Sonnet

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