Alice, a faun in waiting, a blackheart, stood at the edge of the village, her arms outstretched, scarecrowing.
"Don't need them here. Don't need the future," she mumbled, her head already lost in illness and dentyne.
We knew they'd come, with or without her, that probably she was just a lightning conductor, out there in all weathers, her body sucking in water, her shirt already becoming invisible-
"Just the collar and cuffs; that's all she ever seems to need these days."
They did come; booters and looters, even blackheads themselves looking for shellfish work or a time to comes to terms with their own ethnicity. Alice did her best, repelled a few with weirdness and politics, some with nudity and forced emotion, a couple with no visible means of support.
"There is nothing to be here."
But they kept on coming; the lines out of the village kept growing, three people deep and several thousand long, all shapes and sizes (the fatties were trucked up and exterminated, of course and the ones that smelt of lung and kidney), all colours, all creeds (though, shortly afterwards this word fell out fo the dictionary and was never found again)
And Alice, scarecrowing and spilling filth and bile and langour and torment and muckspreading her tiny goat heart out, kept out there for a million minutes, even when the nails were finally removed.