All the Fabulous Beasts

by Priya Sharma

I love the grandeur of The Strand. High towers of ornate stone. The road’s packed with wagons and carts. Boats choke the river. The Mersey is the city’s blood and it runs rich. Liverpool lives again.

He was a millpond of a man. They wanted to see what sort of woman would make him ripple. None guessed

The old hag lives on a bed of mouldy hay, twigs, moss, newspaper and woollen tufts. She squats rather than sits. Her irises are covered with a milky shroud. She wears layers of white, each stained and torn, like a demented virgin bride.

You were a lick of cream.

“All that love, it has to go somewhere. Like all energy in the universe, it can’t just disappear. It changes, from one form into another. It is a good way, yes?” He puffs out his chest with pride, as though this is his personal plan.