The Hand of Poverty
Born of famine and greed, Gorta longs for his grave. For all appearances, he’s an old man with a dank beard and a gold coin. Joe wants that coin. And he’s going to take it.
“In a windswept rag, the voice emerged and flapped forward on the ground, gathering scum from the water as it rose. Fetid, neglected things sticking to it; fly’s wings, bits of clay and moss. A gust lifted the cloth over its head and weeds tapered down its back. It crawled to the bank, drew in moisture and gained pale flesh. Its words less like a whimper and more like a moan, accompanied by the pine of an empty stomach.”