She looked, but could not see.\n\nShe listened, but could not hear.\n\nThe old man had not come.\n\nThe ecumenical salesperson told them he'd fallen ill. Unlikely to recover. \n\nIt was the communion wafers. She knew it. Now more than ever.\n\n[[Πλεονεξ|eight]]

When they found her she was naked on the floor. Except for the socks.\n\nAll around her jugs and jars and vials full. Frayed string and torn paper covering where lids had disappeared.\n\nOne shattered on the floor. Its pale contents strewn beside her. \n\nA conglomeration. Wet, dried, now seeping again.

She stared at the monochrome effigy before her, already holding another small, round slice. \n\nSo pale, the light creased and cracked through its insubstantiality.\n\nThen she took it.\n\nAnd stuffed it in a mouth not hers.\n\nMuffled and dismay before her, murmurs behind. She grabbed the vessel, trying to stuff more and more and more.\n\nWrenched and pushed and cast off she fled, a crackling cadence left behind.\n\n[[Πλεονεξια|ten]]

Extraordinary discounts on hallucinations!\n\nShe ignored the bellowing peddler. The colour changed and she crossed, both hands in pockets, one toying the edges of the cloth.\n\n[[Πλεονε|seven]]

She'd got stuck behind the old man again. It was like being forced to listen to someone slowly beat two pipes together, the sound his walking stick made on the pavement.\n\nEvery so often she got the urge to push him and run, to topple his dessicated frame, leaving it broken in her wake.\n\n[[Πλ|three]]

The communion wafers were laced with rat poison. She was sure of it. She'd stopped swallowing them years ago. After a little practice she'd figured out how to tuck them under her tongue, then dispose of them with a stifled cough when she was on her knees.\n\nWeek after week people became sick. Some had died. \n\nShe didn't fancy being packed up in a chipboard box just yet.\n\n[[Π|two]]

The awning was barely hanging on, attached by what looked like the rusty extrusions of a thousand tiny iron spiders. She checked the box, nothing but a few scraps of wasted paper, then took the stairs. \n\nThe stone floor sucked the warmth from her feet, its depserate attempt at existence. \n\nShe put on a pair of socks, wary for knowing how such desperations could end.\n\n[[Πλεο|five]]

\n\n\n[[<h1><center>Pleonexia</center></h1>|one]]\n\n

She held out her hands, waiting for the bread made flesh to be given.\n\nShe wondered, if there was no bread, would we eat flesh instead?\n\nFlesh made bread.\n\nTransmogrified with marketing.\n\n[[Πλεονεξι|nine]]\n

Free of the curb she coasted at her own pace, only stopping when the lights changed to a less favourable shade.\n\nThe old lady was in the park again, a sea of grey and white and black bobbing heads at her feet.\n\nSome day soon she'd be pigeon food. Worm food, tree food, earth food.\n\n[[Πλε|four]]

Pleonexia

She took the cloth from her pocket, unwrapping the sodden, misshapen glob. \n\nOnce it was dry she'd put it with the others. Eventually she'd have enough to prove what she already knew. It could be tested, and then they'd see. \n\nSometimes she wondered why she kept going. All it sold her were visions of nevermore.\n\nAnd she could get those on any street corner. \n\n[[Πλεον|six]]

Vivien Lengkeek\nthe dark wanderer\n@tdw_au

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