London Fog

Plinky.com asked me to write a story about getting a scar, either my own or imagined.

Slicing
through murk and mist
All silent pea-souper
and razor-blade stillness

These cobbled streets
uneven, eventful
Lulling this walker
to dream of his home

Gas-lamps
and mud-larks
Brigands awaiting
opportunity’s knock

Sulphurous clouds
burn down the throat
Industrial exhalation
suffocation, the choke

Slicing
the knife’s
swept arcs
parabolic flight

Slashes a chest
releasing red torrents
Falling backwards
avoidance

Follow-through
savage and quick
A lunge, clumsy
telegraphed clear

A kick to the knee
a shadow falls sideways
No time to check
To escape is the all

Run through the pea-soup
run, run, stay blinded
through the front door
The mirror beholds

This wound will bear watching
All gashed, red and visceral
A scar I will bear
of a night in the fog

[inspired by images of victorian London]

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