I’ll kill them all, even in this weakened state.
Poor Fire Hand Zhang, thought Joanna, staring at the sentence of his death, the feral wolves descending into the pit, clearly not giving much weight to his boast, or caring much if it was flesh or fabric they were tearing off.
Did no one think for even half a second about saving the wretch?
Fire Hand was about him, not self-assigned
honour called for helping lesser enemies
beaten jokes, sudden weaklings
but no, the Red Flower Heroes, in a pit of wolves, just left him there.
The door opened and a Chinese couple wheeled their luggage in, clocking her under the duvet and saying hi, we’re new in Mandarin.
To head off further conversation, she vetoed I’m part of the furniture and gave a muted hi back instead, then lifted Gum Yong over her face
returned to Fire Hand Zhang
felt pity, shame
blamed the Red Flower Heroes, Gum Yong,
definitely not the wolves.
In her head, the streets always had a hazy glow round the fringes, the pastel tone of the buildings heavily saturated, the people lively in their limb movements, action mechanics
in this reality, on this side street
things were ten, twenty per cent diluted.
Drained by a city-sized ghoul.
Phased into a sexless monotone frame.
No Gum Yong. No Varo. No idioms. No Samaritan Girl. No Tat Ming Pair. No flag on the moon. No animal porn. No passing trams. No beggars. No baking soda dealers. No Krsnik. No possibility of Krsnik. No Krsnik prints.
No gutter Slovene.
No Cantonese.Continue reading