Wednesday, January 23, 2008


Jedith alights upon the edge of a tomb in Hyde Park and settles, one leg tucked underneath the other in a half-lotus, her wings shimmering as they fold. She rests her coffee – a skinny latte in a cardboard cup from the Costa on Regent Street – on the weather-dark granite while she unwraps a tuna salad baguette, dropping the cling film to be snatched by the breeze and sail into the blue. Russet hair catches the winter sunshine and she chews slowly, regarding the occasional walker on the path below. To call her diseased would be to call the arctic winter chilly; for Jedith is the Angel of Pestilence, one of the four horse(wo)men of the Apocalypse. She is constantly astonished at the progress of mankind, for when she exhausted her arsenal of viruses they invented their own, adapting and mutating her most virulent strains. Still she keeps some in reserve, those that man thought long ago extinct, for she has seen the need of them before long, when her brothers walk the world once more.

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