I led her by the hand to the two great rifles stripped from a battleship corpse. They pointed out to sea, to guard the city from what might come shambling out the ink and froth. We would make one form there together in the latent heat of our crimes. All the while the lights of patrols cars hunted for our fugitive forms.
We met that afternoon among a museum gallery of knives, and clubs fashioned from broken nails. All stripped from the dead figures of the old war no-one survived. In its muted grey corridors I impressed her with my knowledge of field surgery.
We each chose our favourite pieces from the display cases’ crystal glitter, and cut a route through the gift shop.
Chalk Snow 