A Vulture's Requiem

“For those about to kill, we salute you”

It was a hottest day of the year when a trident burst out of tawny man's chest, sending an arc of gore & splintered bone out onto the dusty ground. A roar echoed up out of the baying crowd as the robo-cameras of Channel Lurk-1 whizzed & honed in on the deadly spectacle like wasps to jam jar. The kraken of the mob was awakening at the first kill & unfurling its tentacles of desire. Old Lurk Colosseum hissed with the malicious electricity of legalised termination & every thing began to smell heavy. In the centre of the ring the two

Chinese Whispers

“Who's there?”

As the wind mustered itself for another assault on the old IZ, Industrial Zone, of Old Lurk, I pulled my brown trench coat tighter around me & bravely marched, head down & gritted teeth, towards the agreed meeting place.

The roads were as deserted as the dawn before bombs drop. Production had long since stopped in most of the factories & warehouses around here. The death of industrial enlightenment had sucker punched Old Lurk as much as any other city in any other universe.

Old Lurk. The Somnambulopolis. The original ghost town.

I entered into an alley between two dark satanic factory walls. The roofs staggered upwards like giant teeth biting into the captured & unruly firmament. There was an

Seraphim Blues

“Angelina”

Spoken in a whisper.

Whistling through the sorrow stained alleyways of my memories on the wings of drunken white doves.

That name.

That girl.