Elena Kane

Twenty-one days.

The city ceased its pretense.

At 06:06 a.m. each clock, across Brooklyn stopped simultaneously.

Each phone display glowed red.

Each subway turnstile was secured.

Each traffic signal emitted light.

Afterward the message arrived.

Not on screens this time.

In blood.

Spanning the heavens inscribed in clouds that oozed like injuries:

THE QUEEN IS READY.

THE CITY IS HUNGRY.

BRING HER TO THE CATHEDRAL AT MIDNIGHT.

We SEIZE IT FROM HER BIT BY BIT.

The words ...