damejetsam
Well, I suppose he was a man, of late.
| If I can pin it - if I can wrap my knuckles around its nasty neck and squeeze until it hisses. & what the hell do I think about to do so? |
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| X can feel it, their talking on it; like the Damn Infant kicking every time Cpt Dryden came & hammered along the infirmary cells. |
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| O, yes, P, for our mutual good, GUT THYSELF, your entrails fetch more at market & these are hardships to which you are so well accustomed. |
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| Slick & wicked pressing hard against the backs of my eyes. Still in there, isn't it. |
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| Says the Fleet won't come. Won't it now? Considering Adm. Ross' little lover was a Midshipman on the ship out of Sydney Cove. |
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| & must keep thinking lest the X return. Avoid sleep for the time being, drink also. A wicked tang in my brains when I close my eyes. |
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| And perhaps this time he will not make me suffer the brig. This time I will insist I am his wife and not a prisoner in transit for trial. |
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| Will speak w. S. If he knows what E has (besides his damn ring), he might collect himself enough to seem an officer if the Fleet arrives. |
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| Fled sick to the step. Found the dog for company, damp and repentant. Cried like a society girl & then sobered myself. First: escape here. |
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| Came to my senses with one hand reaching to brush back S's hair, as if it were a rainy Wednesday at Keane's Court & he, in from the street. |
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| S came in. The Fleet's all over his face, like canvas stiff with salt. How long since his last leave? E tracks the days. Why so threadbare? |
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| Dr spoke at me & half of it was in Mama's Gaelic. His head is wrapped as if my dream were real. Elaine, a chuisle mo chroí. Tá tuirse orm. ... |
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| Things are not where they used to be. I'm writing with the wrong hand. I see S on the beach below. Ellie, I couldn't make out what you said. |
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| E |
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| breath of air |
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| ˙ʇuǝuɐɯ ɐʇdıɹɔs ˙ʇuɐloʌ ɐqɹǝʌ |
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| ¡ʎɹʇunoɔ uʍo sıɥ uı pǝʇdǝɔɔɐ sı ʇǝɥdoɹd ou ˙ʎɹʇunoɔ ʎɥʇ uı ǝɹǝɥ oslɐ op 'ɯnɐuɹǝdɐɔ uı ǝuop pɹɐǝɥ ǝʌɐɥ ǝʍ ɹǝʌǝosʇɐɥʍ :ɟlǝsʎɥʇ lɐǝɥ 'uɐıɔısʎɥd ... |
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| ǝıp oʇ ƃuıoƃ llɐ all going to die ǝıp oʇ ƃuıoƃ llɐ all going to die ǝıp oʇ ƃuıoƃ llɐ all going to die ǝıp oʇ ƃuıoƃ llɐ ... |
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| Inventory. Razor, sharp enough. Tinder, dry enough. Memory, long enough. Oil, plenty. |
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