#(maude BARELY kept herself from crying)
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Maude didn’t know whether her death would result in Feld’s death, but she knew Feld’s death would result in her own. It created a stalemate, a nightmare that had haunted her for months. More and more often nowadays, a voice in her mind whispered that finding a way to ensure Feld’s death was the only solution, even if it ended her life as well. Since she couldn’t kill Feld herself — and Arthur, when she’d begged him, had refused to even try because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her — she needed someone else to kill it.
Death didn’t frighten her, if it meant stopping the terrible cycle Feld had lured her into (or, at least, the cycle itself frightened her more). But it was cruel of her to suggest placing the burden of killing Feld (and her) onto Samhain’s shoulders. The words had risen up and escaped before she could stifle them.
Guilt swept over Maude anew and smothered her anger in a heartbeat. Heat no longer clouded her thoughts and muffled her hearing. Samhain’s words rang clear and heavy in the innkeeper’s heart.
What if Bran made a deal with the creature as well? Freezing terror leapt in Maude’s chest and flashed in her eyes as her gaze snapped back to Samhain, the color draining from her face. Oh, Bran. She knew the boy well. She knew he would be the most likely to demand a foolish deal of his own — even more swiftly and stubbornly than her, she reckoned. This fear haunted her the most. Losing any member of her small family, or dooming them to a similar fate.
Samhain went on, and his sincerity reached Maude properly this time. She couldn’t help listening, even as her chest ached at his determination to help them somehow, against all odds. He claimed he’d done terrible things as well. Maude briefly wondered what terrible things he meant, before his next words stole her focus. Another lump lodged in her throat.
Ah.
Struggling not to fall to pieces entirely, she pressed her shaky fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. Her shoulders shuddered once before she forced herself to stop, to regain a shred of dignity at last, inwardly scolding herself for losing her composure. With a shake of her head to cast aside her tangled worries, and a hoarse hum to smooth her voice, Maude took a breath and opened her eyes to look at Samhain.
“Right,” she agreed briskly. “You’re quite right.” Thank you, she meant as well — and though she couldn’t voice it, her gratitude was clear. It warmed her gaze like hearth fire. Then she shook her head again and brushed invisible dust from her sleeves, muttering, “Y cythraul budr hwnnw. Reckon it’s best if I don’t talk to it now, so I don’t strangle it through that bubble of yours, but it deserves a proper scolding. Fed up with its nonsense, I am.”
Her tone was much lighter now, lacking any true sharpness despite its bitterness. Maude faltered, and her gaze drifted to the music box. Her voice dipped back to seriousness. “So… that’s got a spirit in it?”
Samhain allowed Maude to let it all out, the anger sizzling like forgotten coals inside of her and coming off like sparks. Her words were sharp and concise, the steely, level-headed innkeeper facade now falling apart and revealing her an exhausted victim unraveling at the seams. Samhain held her gaze throughout it all, not batting an eye, even as his fists curled at his sides.
She looked away, arms crossed over her chest and aching heart. She sounded tired - so, so tired. She got quieter but her words were clear. “It’s just the way of things,” she said, and something inside the ghoul stirred violently and ached for her in ways any self-sacrificing soul could understand. He relaxed the tension in his hands.
"Not always," he remarked. Before Maude could argue further, Samhain spoke his piece. "Yes, it's true ah don't understand, not everything entirely; it's why ah'm still here. Ah'm aware it's using me to protect itself because that's what it does. It'll do anything an' use anyone it can to survive. This much is true." The ghoul's tone was even and calm, simmered with the kind of warmth that made you think he was scared for Maude and what she could do. What she was capable of doing. He couldn't take that risk.
"Even if ye found a way to rid the world of yerself, what makes you think that'll stop it? How can ye guarantee that the creature'll perish with you? That it's not another one of its lies? Ye won't be around to see it..." He paused. "But Bran will. And so will Nettie an' Arthur. They'll still be here. They'll know. You used it to save Bran's life - what makes you think any o'them won't do the same?"
The occupants of Oak Haven would've known better by now, after everything they've been through and witnessed. Samhain didn't mean to speak ill of the others but he knew as much as anyone what people were capable of when they were desperate enough. And pained souls were the most susceptible to Feldmire's manipulation, its bread and butter after all. The possibility was still on the table, whether Maude liked it or not.
"What if it answers my questions an' ah can't find a loophole? Aye, that can happen. But what if ah can? What then?" he asked back, stepping to the side so that Maude could meet his eyes once more. So that his sincerity could reach out to her. So that she knew how much he cared and was willing to help. "Ah saw the way you an' Bran looked at me. For anyone to figure out yer secrets, to break its sleeping spell, you thought it inconceivable. The fact is we still 'ave no idea about what's really possible or impossible, an' neither does Feldmire."
"Despite what you may think of me, ah'm still.. human," said the ghoul, holding the back of his neck. "Ah'm no saint. Ah've done... terrible things. Things ah regret. But ah wouldn't regret leaving Oak Haven be if it meant you an' everyone would be safe. In that case, ah'll just keep comin' back here with ideas an' solutions, see what works an' what doesn't. We'll try every trick in the book, seek consul from any sage if its brings us closer to an answer..!"
He stopped himself, covering the bottom half of his face with his hand before getting carried away. Slowly but surely, he plucked the next words straight from his heart. "What's important, Ms. Haven.. is that we don't give up hope for better days ahead," said the ghoul, holding out his hand with an encouraging smile on his face. "At the very least, just know that yer not alone in this. Not anymore."
#thesundowncrew#(gosh hello this is so good even tho it hurts me agdgdgd)#(sam!!!)#(he got through to her!!!)#(a true accomplishment tbh)#(maude BARELY kept herself from crying)#(she Had to lighten the mood a bit before diving back into the Serious Discussion….)#(she called it a dirty demon <3)#(i’m laughing at your tags tho agdgd his deal with axel…..)#(oh my god………)#|༄| threads#|✧| maude#|༄| ic#long post //
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Cherries, Juniper, and Orange Slices
Daddy!Eris x Reader
Summary: This one is a req from @acourtofmenandthirst: Eris' daughter drawing his scars on her doll.
Warnings: Mentions of scars.
Word Count: 1,639
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Eris peeks his head into the room, amber eyes drifting towards the cot his son, Rook, is currently crying in. The young boy, hardly a year old, has an iron grip on the bars caging him inside the intricately carved wood of his bed. Thick vines and leaves cut into the dark lumber, choked by his little fingers.
Tears stream down Rook's chubby cheeks and Eris coos, pushing into the room. Sunlight creeps in through the light linen curtains. The stained glass creation hung in the window casts colorful shadows across the creamy yellow of the walls.
“My poor son,” Eris huffs dramatically, lifting Rook from his cradle. He’s clothed in only his nappy, reaching up to cling onto his father’s pressed shirt as if he’ll never let go again.
Eris hopes he doesn’t. His children are growing up much too fast.
Rook sniffles, resting his head in the crook of Eris’ neck, and hiccups. Eris pats soothing motions into his son's bare skin, peppering his freckled cheeks with loving kisses as he calms his youngest child down. He rocks the little boy, waltzing up to the big windows and pushes the curtains open, letting the afternoon sun shine in full force. The room overlooks the small orchard in the back of his quaint home. Trees he’s planted himself with help from you and your daughters, an important tradition to your family.
It started on your first date. Eris had already known you were the one—love at first sight—and kept his home away from home a secret from his family, only using it to escape Beron’s throes when he really needed it. Briar, he named it. He had cooked you a hearty meal with the most expensive, luxurious wine he could find, and after a delightful dinner, he’d walked you through the nearly empty rolling hills behind his home, hand-in-hand.
You’d commented how the fields needed more trees and had gushed on and on about what he could do with the space. His shadow hounds had run by your feet, chasing each other through the ankle-high grasses, and he’d immediately taken you to his mount and settled you in front of him, taking the both of you into town to purchase some seeds.
It has been tradition ever since. Birthdays, anniversaries, births, deaths, any and all celebrations the both of you would go into the yard and plant a tree. Maude loves her cherry trees with all her heart, and Eris is convinced the only reason his daughter ventures outside is to pluck the fruit off the trees and stuff herself silly, stumbling back into the house with stained fingers and lips.
A juniper tree for his other daughter, Juniper. This one was harder to acquire, but thriving well in the backyard, closest to the home. June doesn’t seem to understand the value of the tree yet, but someday, Eris knows that she will.
And a sweet orange tree for his little boy Rook. It had been one of your cravings when you were pregnant with him, and to plant the tree only seemed fitting. Rook devoured any little orange bits he was given with the biggest smile on his face.
He makes a grabby hand for the tree, smart enough to know where his favorite treats are from.
“You hungry, little man?” Eris asks, and Rook babbles in response. He lifts his son, blowing raspberries on his bare stomach that has cheerful giggles bursting through the room. Rook’s auburn eyes shine up at his father, laughing only harder when Eris catches a whiff of his nappy, grimacing. “Alright baby, let’s get you all cleaned up first.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•
“Why is our son naked?” you muse, allowing Eris to press a kiss to your cheek while you scoop the last of the cookie dough onto the tray. Your mate and daughters had been helping you, but the girls had been more interested in eating the batter their father kept sneaking them, so you shooed them away to play with their dolls while the cookies baked and you patted Eris on the butt as he went to check on Rook.
Your son keens, pressing his own open mouthed kiss to your cheek. It’s all slobber and suction, but you can’t help the beaming smile that splits your cheeks anyway.
“Because he keeps burning them off, Fawn,” Eris answers you, nose wrinkling as he turns to the babe, “Isn’t that right buddy?”
Rook screeches in excitement as his father tickles his stomach. It isn’t abnormal for your son’s power to be flaring up with his emotions. You’d gone through similar situations with Maude and Juniper around this age as well. You still have the burn marks of waddling feet branded into the wood to prove it.
Placing the tray of cookies into the oven, you reach out to take Rook from your mate. “Such a little stinker,” you tease, bopping your youngest on the nose. He retaliates by grabbing a fistful of your hair and you curse mentally, knowing you should’ve tied it out of his reach.
“Where are the girls?” Eris asks, peeking around the kitchen for any leftover cookie dough. In his mission to steal as much as he could for his daughters, he’d forgotten to sneak a taste for himself. The mixing bowl sits soapy in the sink and he deflates a little.
“Coloring in the den,” you answer, eyes twinkling. Your stomach swoops still at the sight of Eris, even more so whenever he interacts with his children. You knew he was loving, but seeing him like this, completely at ease with no worries tightening his shoulders, he looks ethereal. “Why don’t you get them washed up for some cookies?”
“Yes, please,” Eris says, stealing a kiss from you. Rook squeals and you swoon.
Leaving Rook with you, Eris takes off into the next room. He finds Maude and Juniper spread out on the floor, their coloring supplies strewn about. Thylix and Codon, two of his hounds, laze around both girls, having taken it upon themselves to become their guards. They hardly leave his daughters alone, often choosing to sleep beside their beds at night, though Eris knows his daughters let them jump into bed with them as soon as the door shuts behind him.
“What are my baby girls drawing in here?” Eris asks, tiptoeing forward. They startle and the hounds’ ears perk up at the sound of their master, but they don’t move. His daughters look up at him with those big, round russet eyes, and Eris knows immediately that they’re doing something they shouldn’t be.
“Daddy,” Maude pouts, hiding something in front of her. Eris’ brows furrow as he wonders what she’s keeping from him, but her younger sister, Juniper, holds her doll up in the air, proudly.
“Daddy!” June yells, pushing up onto wobbly legs and racing towards him. Eris scoops her up and she squeals, bringing her doll with her, showing off her artwork to her father. Marker streaks across the face of her plaything, reds, oranges, and pinks adorning the cheeks and dress, across the doll’s eye.
“What’s this, Junie?” Eris asks, admiring her artistic abilities. There’s potential, but if she’s going to continue her artistic streak, he better get her something more appropriate to color on. Maybe sign her up for one of the local—or Night Court—art classes.
“It’s Daddy,” she answers, beaming up at her father. His heart swells, but he doesn't seem to be comprehending what Juniper is trying to convey.
He looks around his middle daughter to his oldest, still in her spot on the ground. Her cheeks are pinked with a blush and she’s pouting at her little sister for ruining the surprise.
“Care to explain, Maude?” Eris asks, though he’s not really sure if he wants the answer.
She sighs, shoving up to her feet. She holds up her doll in front of her face like she’s going to get in trouble for what she’s done, but Eris doesn’t understand why.
Until Maude explains. “We drew your scars on our dollies,” she says, and it all clicks. The one across his cheekbone from when Beron has nicked him purposefully with the edge of his sword before he set foot into his first war. His father had said the scar would help him relate to his legion the more roughed up he looked.
Another, peeking out from the strap of the doll's dress, right above her heart. It’s a rendition of the brand on his chest, another gift from his father. He tries not to let his children see his scars, especially that one in particular, but she must’ve seen it when she’d crawled into your bed after a nightmare perhaps.
Eris’ eyes prickle but he blinks the emotion away. His throat is thick, and he distracts himself by taking a second look at Juniper's toy. Upon catching her fathers gaze on the doll, Maude speaks again. “Junie drew Uncle Lulu’s eye scars on hers. I told her we were supposed to be drawing only yours, but she didn’t listen,” Maude huffs a little, annoyed that her younger sister didn’t follow her direction.
“That’s…that’s very thoughtful, Junie,” Eris places a chaste kiss on her forehead and she grins. “You both did such a wonderful job.”
“You’re not…mad?” Maude asks, staring up at him nervously.
Juniper kicks her legs, trying to escape Eris’ grip. He lets her down and she abandons her doll, racing for the kitchen where she can hear you talking to her brother.
Eris kneels, taking Maude’s hand in his and tugging her into his chest for a hug. “No, Maude, I’m not upset. I’m impressed.”
“You really like it?” she asks shyly, pulling back so she can look him in the eyes.
Eris nods once, firmly. “I love it, Maude. You made me look perfect.”
#eris vanserra x reader#eris vanserra#daddy!eris#azsazz next gen#acotar#azsazz#acomaf#acowar#eris#domestic eris
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Screams Of The Quiet
Tw:death (childbed fever guys), reference to the Thomas and Elizabeth thing, reference to beheading
Catherine Parr went out of the world screaming.
She screamed in pain, agony. She screamed as she fought through pushing her child into the world. She screamed in defiance to the universe as she felt herself slipping away. She made the world hear her, ‘I am not leaving my child! Not with him, not in this world.’. Her screams haunted the people in the room for the rest of their lives, one of the loudest, most haunting noises ever heard.
‘I am not done yet. There is so much left for me here.’ The screams of a queen, of one of the strongest women you could know. In endless pain, all she could think about was her Mary and how much left she has to do. Screw Thomas, screw her title as dowager queen of England and Ireland. Screw life, for being so unfair. She needs to make amends with the Tudor children. She needs to help shape the new era of their country; someone has to, someone that actually cares about those kids.
She needs to raise her daughter.
Catherine has so many ideas for her daughter, so many things she wants to teach her. She needs to protect her, now knowing what an awful man her father really is. She can’t leave her here with him. She thinks of her mother, Maud Green, who raised her as a single woman and taught many children. The woman who taught the great Catherine Parr to survive. She learned so much from her mother. So much she wants to pass on to Mae, and yet she feels herself barely holding on, getting louder with each scream in a desperate attempt at staying alive though pure force of will.
She’s gotten so much quieter the older she gets, it's a shock to hear her like this as she goes. Growing up she was loud, if the world wanted to drown her out she’d scream over the masses to be heard. She kept that up well into her adult years. Then she got kidnapped for being too outspoken in her beliefs, along with her stepchildren. She was more careful after that. And then, with Henry, she worked so hard to keep him happy with her. But her outspoken and argumentative nature got the best of her again. She was almost killed, and kept her opinions close to her heart after that.
Marrying Thomas had been like being set free, until it wasn’t. She was fooled into it, fooled into thinking he was a good and loving man. He got angry with her too. Never threatening to kill her, but angry enough to scare her. Angry enough to scare Elizabeth too, he hurt that girl. Catherine will never forgive herself for being too afraid to do something, to say something. When did she become too afraid to speak? Perhaps that's why she loves writing so much, the ability to not speak and upset someone close enough to hurt her. A cowards hobby, but protection from her husband nonetheless.
She’s been quieter, still outspoken, but more careful. And now, with the ferocity she’s been suppressing, she screams and yells every thought that comes to her mind. ‘I am not done. There is so much left. I hate you.’ That last one is directed at Thomas, who looks all too shocked to hear it as he holds her hand. She’s squeezing it too hard for him to let go though, from pain or fear or out of anger neither will ever know. ‘I need to see my baby. I need to see her.’ This is his fault. He’d gotten her pregnant, after trying for one in four different marriages this is the man that gave her a baby. She has no ill will against the child, no, never that. But she’s dying and it��s not Mae’s fault, it’s Thomas’s.
With one last scream, the loudest yet, she gives birth to a baby girl. They attempt to give her to Thomas and she growls that they’d better not. They hand her the baby instead. Her baby. She died for this, or is dying, she knows, she wants to hold her.
Mae is a beautiful mess. She’s fairly heavy for a newborn, and looks a lot like Catherine herself. Like Catherine, she’s also covered in her mother's blood, and she’s screaming too. The similarity is jarring, because one has just been given life, and the other is about to pass away.
She feels herself slipping away, as her eyes close she hears Mae and Thomas crying for her. The last thing she feels is someone taking her baby from her hold. The last thing she thinks and says is ‘I love you.’ She cannot tell if it was meant for just her daughter or for them both. No time to dwell on it as she drifts away, though. Finally, finally silent.
2
When Catherine wakes up, she’s alone. Taking a moment to get her bearings, she realizes a few things. One, there is no more agonizing pain. Two, this room looks to be a bedroom, but she doesn’t recognize quite the items scattered around it. And three, there’s no sounds of a child anywhere near her.
She must be in heaven. She certainly died, and this place is strange enough to make her look around in wonder. She stands to walk to the door, maybe she can find an angel to explain. Maybe she can watch over Mae and the other children from here. As she walks towards the door though, a blinding pain shoots through her head.
Ah, so the pain is not over then.
When she emerges from the sensation she notices she’s fallen onto the floor. And that she has some new knowledge of where she is. She is in the future, not in heaven. She’s been reincarnated, and the world has vastly changed. There are still some missing bits, she hopes she has the opportunity to learn them herself if knowledge is given through painful means in this century. She sits up from her spot on the floor with a quiet grunt. The pain has completely subsided now, hopefully it stays gone.
Her door opens and she fights the urge to scream in fright. She looks at the person who walked in. Truthfully they look a bit frantic themselves, so Catherine doubts that they’ll be of any real help.
“You must be Cathy Parr then! We’ve been waiting for days!”
Catherine just looks at this woman. She can’t bring herself to speak. She’s always known just what to say in dangerous situations, but then she’d known who she was dealing with. Speaking up now when she has no idea who’s listening is risky. She doesn't trust herself to say the right thing. She doesn’t trust the woman who seems to know who she is.
The silence seems to be off putting to her visitor, who attempts to fill it.
“Right, so I know this is probably kind of scary. You’ve been reincarnated, new body and everything-“
New body? She immediately looks down to her hands, noticing that they are completely different now. How is it that she has the same consciousness and not the same body? Who’s body is this? Where did it come from?
“-My name is Katherine Howard, the others call me Kitty because there’s too many Catherine’s. You make the third, we’ve been calling you Cathy. I hope you’re okay with that.”
Catherine eyes her warily, still sitting on the floor. Katherine Howard. She knew her. She glances down at ‘Kitty’s’ neck, noting the scarf. She wonders what’s under there.
Noticing that the girl is looking at her clearly wanting an answer, Catherine nods. She has more pressing matters to worry over than a nickname. Why she’s alive being one of them. Why Katherine Howard, who she saw beheaded with her own eye, is alive being another.
“Good! I was the last one to wake up. It seems to have gone in order of marriage. You’re the last one, and your room is right next to mine. The others don’t know you’re here yet, I heard you fall and wanted to check first.”
It seems to have gone in order of marriage. She mulls over the word in her mind. This means that the ‘others’ mentioned must be all of Henry’s wives, given Katherine Howard was right before her.
“Would you like to meet the others?”
She wonders what would happen if she said no. Would Kitty be prepared for that answer? Would she just leave her here or would she try to convince her otherwise? She’s tempted to say no just to see what would happen, she might have if she didn’t think her guilt over messing with the girl would be overwhelming. She nods in response.
“Okay, do you need help getting up?”
Oh, right. She’s still on the floor. With a shake of her head she stands, gesturing to her now upright body with a small smile. Kitty laughs a bit at the gesture and tilts her head in the direction of the hall behind her.
“Let's go then!” She seems cheerful. Not at all like someone who had her head chopped off.
As they make their way down the hall Catherine trails a bit behind, observing every little thing. She gets a glimpse into the room next to hers, which she knows is Kitty’s. A lot of pink. She’d hazard a guess and say Kitty’s favorite color is pink. The hall walls are kind of plain, a nice light grey throughout. There are seven doors, all the same brown color except for one, which is a lighter brown than the others. She taps Kitty on the shoulder and gestures to the door, looking at it questioningly.
“Oh, that’s the bathroom.” Kitty goes and opens the door, showing her the strange room. As soon as Catherine lays eyes on the strange objects inside, she feels a white-hot pain. Kitty catches her on the way down, and when she finally comes back to her mind, she knows what that room is for. She groans in frustration from the fact that this pain seems to come with knowledge.
“Yeah, that happens whenever we find something new. It’s honestly kind of annoying. I’ve only been here for a few weeks, so it happens from time to time.”
That sounds like a promise that this pain will pop up again, and though it comes with information, it is not welcome. They go down a flight of stairs, and into a room her mind calls the living room. Odd, though fitting. There are several sofas and chairs in the room. It seems to be an area for comfort. There is a fireplace and several tables, and a few lamps, which are fascinating.
“Holy shit!”
Oh, and people. This room is filled with people, too.
“Anne, mind your tongue, will you?” Another woman scolds from her chair.
‘Anne’ opens her mouth to retort, but Kitty intervenes.
“Now is not the time! Everyone, this is Cathy. Cathy, everyone.”
They all stare at her expectantly, although she’s not sure what they could possibly be expecting from her. Looking around the room, all she can manage is a wave.
“She doesn’t talk much. But that’s okay, I think I explained things pretty well.”
Yes, and also no. The only reason Catherine has any idea what’s happening is from her newfound pain-knowledge and picking up on things Kitty has said and inferring what they mean. But she looks quite excited to have been the one to greet her, so Catherine nods at her with a warm smile, getting the girl to beam.
“Alright, I’m Anne von Cleve, you knew me before. I go by Anna now since there is another Anne. Makes things easier.”
Anna, right. Catherine did know her. They were certainly not friends, but it’s nice to see a familiar face. They’ll deal with any past tensions later.
“I’m the other Anne. Anne Boleyn.” The woman who said ‘holy shit’ when Catherine arrived jumps into the conversation not even a moment later. She knows Anne Boleyn, knew her child. She’s unable to fully look Anne in the eye.
“I’m Jane Seymour, are you feeling alright?”
Jane died the same way Catherine did. She knows the pain that her death brought. And she brought about Edward, the sweetest little boy she’d ever met. Though she’s unsure why Jane might be enquiring into her wellbeing while hardly even knowing her, so she just nods again.
“Good, coming back from the dead is a bit jarring.”
She nods rapidly at that. It is jarring. One moment she was dying a slow and agonizing death, then she died. And then the next she wakes up, just, not dead anymore. The shock of dying hasn’t worn off yet. When it does Catherine hopes to God she’s alone to deal with it.
“Catherine of Aragon.” The woman in the armchair introduces herself.
Catherine of Aragon. She’s Catherine’s godmother, her namesake.
“You may call me Catalina. I’m glad you made it to us okay.” The kindness and surety in the words makes everything she’s heard of the woman ring true. Catherine of Aragon, the true queen. Catherine had tried to emulate her in her reign.
“Are you hungry?” Kitty asks. And Catherine realizes that yes, she is quite hungry. Her stomach makes a noise in place of her mouth, causing everyone to laugh.
“It’s nearly dinner anyway. Reincarnation makes a person hungry.” Anna says that last bit as a joke. But it seems to be true, she wasn’t very hungry when she died. Though maybe she was in too much pain to notice. Or maybe this body hasn’t eaten? Who’s body even is this?
Before she can allow herself into an existential spiral, Jane beckons her into another room. The kitchen, her brain supplies. It looks nothing like a kitchen she would see in her last life. She very carefully examines the various items in the room, wary of any influx of painful knowledge. It comes when she looks at the stove. Falling in front of everyone is a bit embarrassing, but they all seem to get it. Anna catches her this time, and leads her to a chair to rest. Once the pain subsides, she knows what all the appliances in the room do.
Interesting.
“Those are annoying, I’m surprised you didn’t scream. Anna always screams.” Anne says once Catherine’s eyes have cleared of pain and confusion.
Anna defends herself, “Not everyone had a super painful death, Anne. I was just really tired when I died.”
Anne rolls her eyes goodnaturedly, and then directs a question towards Catherine, one that is not yes or no answerable. Also, quite insensitive in topic.
“Okay, okay! Well, how did you die, Cathy?”
Anne talks a lot, it makes sense this was her main offense against Henry. Though Catherine shouldn’t judge, she talked a lot too.
Anna speaks up for her, telling them childbirth. Then she tells Anne to be more sensitive, not everyone talks about their deaths freely. Jane looks very sympathetic. She would be, she’d died in a similar fashion.
The conversation continues around her and eventually she is handed a plate of food. She should thank Catalina for it, it’d be incredibly rude not to. It’s already bad enough she hasn’t said a word yet. As they sit, Catherine Parr opens her mouth for the first time in this life to speak.
And nothing comes out.
The others don’t seem to judge her, though. There’s a ball of anxiety in her chest and the feeling reverberates through her whole body. That’s never happened before, and she silently makes a decision that she’s going to have to work on speaking.
Catalina smiles at her warmly, like she knows what Catherine was trying to say. Then they all continue their conversation, making sure to include her as much as possible while she tries and fails to convince herself to speak up.
This is strange. Just a moment ago (Years ago? When are they, exactly?) she’d been screaming. Now she can’t seem to make a noise. This life will be spent in silence, so it seems.
#Six#Six the musical#Six ff#Six the musical Fanfiction#Catherine Parr#catherine of aragon#Katherine Howard#anne boleyn#Jane Seymour#Anne of Cleves
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DRUNKEN SAILOR // ARCHIVE LINK
Despite the encroaching night, the docks were still bustling. Burly workers milled about, sailors and merchants alike going about the last of their business for the day, the latter hawking wares and seeking to crack open the coin purse of any passerby they could convince.
This far north, the leaves on the trees grew a medley of color ranging from rich indigo to bright cobalt blue, now dusted with a sugary coating of peach and amber sunset lighting. Speckled between the deep blues were flames of orange, brightly burning street lamps that marked the way up the cobblestone steps from the docks into town. Thick clouds hung over the shore, tinged the same colors as the sunset, save one heavy grey cloud that threatened rain. A watercolor painting, all reflected in the mirror of the sea.
On a cliff overlooking the scene was the local inn and tavern. Oil lanterns and tattered banners swayed in the wind, beckoning travelers and locals alike inside, out of the biting cold. On an icy northern night like this, few could resist the comforts of a warm hearth, strong drinks, and good company.
[ MUSIC // AMBIANCE // ARCHIVE LINK ]
Unsurprisingly. The tavern itself was seething with activity. After all, any who were willing to keep the peace were welcome here. Many even hung their weapon belts at the door - trusting the town guard to see to their safety. Red cherry wood was stained purple, drenched in the shade of the cool evening. The building was old - a big, open space with two floors and several hearths, built of stout timber and set upon a sturdy stone foundation. Rugs covered the stone floor, thick curtains kept the draft out, and soft furs were draped over furniture.
In the center of the main hall, down from the ceiling grew one of the local trees, a great spectacle of vibrant blue foliage and inky black branches - limbs that stretched down and had been tied and trained to hold the many, many lanterns flickering brilliant gold and crimson through old, smoke-stained glass, that together made a chandelier. A blend of different tongues, all overlapping and fighting to be heard over one another, caused a din that made it difficult for the innkeeper and her customer to hear themselves.
“Iyrngybet… what you’ve given me here is not even half of what you owe.”
“Aye… that is the right of it, lass.”
The burly Roegadyn man awkwardly rubbed the back of his head and avoided the eyes of the innkeeper. The woman was smaller than him practically by half, but her no-nonsense air had him shuffling his feet and pouting like a schoolboy being disciplined. She sighed at him with rather evident disappointment, but did not seem angry.
“Well… I have horses that need grooming and stalls that need cleaning.”
The Hyur woman hardly had the time to finish her sentence before the brawny man was wrapping his arms around her and picking her up in a tight bearhug. Luckily for her, the rafters in the ceiling were high, so she did not risk hitting her head despite the way he twirled her around.
“Oh, yer a gem, Maude! A right gem!”
“Yes, yes…” Maude did her best to sound exasperated, but the laughter in her voice was palpable. “Put me down, please.”
“O’course.”
He very gingerly set her down, and the freckled woman brushed her skirt free of the many wrinkles the unexpected hug had put in it.
“I will expect you bright and early tomorrow morning, sixth bell. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly!”
Maude, the innkeeper and tavern’s owner, felt a good deal older than her twenty and six summers. A hyur woman with a sharp wit but a kind heart, she opened the tavern and inn to any who would keep the peace, and who agreed to comply with the local guard who watched her door.
Her dress was a layering of mismatched petticoats, cream linen, and an old, many times mended hempen bodice, laced haphazardly with fraying jute cord. Her auburn brown hair was tied back in a long, loosely plaited braid that reached her hip in total length, wrapped about her temple and tying underneath her long hair was the one fine thing she owned - a vivid blue silk sash.
As the tavern’s sole proprietor and the only staff she could truly afford, Maude had her hands full filling and refilling drinks, fetching dried meat and loaves of bread, and assigning rooms to the sailors and travellers as they came and went.
She didn’t mind, though - she liked to be kept busy, and in her handful of years living here, she had grown to love the town, the tavern, and its people. The majority of her customers were regulars she knew by name, the other sailors she vaguely recognized when they passed through during certain months.
There was, however, one figure present this evening she did not recognize at all. He was mild-mannered, unobtrusive - he spoke to the guard before entering and even agreed to leave his sword belt at the door. And much to her delight he paid his coin without hesitation, excuse, or flimsy attempts at bartering. He was garbed in a dusty matte black coat, layered over a simple leather doublet and creamy, low-cut white shirt. Brass buttons had been worn down over time, seams stretched and quilted lapels scuffed from wear and tear. He had introduced himself as a sailor, and he had the look of one. He had thick brown hair and one piercing, gold eye, the left - the right was covered with a leather patch, a relatively common feature amongst sailors. His skin was tan, the corners of his eyes wrinkled, but only in a way that really showed when he smiled.
There was little unnatural or unusual about the Miqo’te, save perhaps a certain lazy grace with which he moved and carried himself. As the evening carried on, she found herself paying him more attention. There was a brooding expression on his face, an almost alarming focus that furrowed his brow and tightened his jaw, that with a suave charm was instantaneously covered once he felt eyes on him. It took him no time at all to warm up to the locals and join in with the drinking.
He held aloft a full tankard, by nature of his height towering over most of his newfound company. He had a gruff, guttural, but still somehow charming singing voice.
“Hey ho, to the bottle I go! To heal my heart and drown my woe. Rain may fall, and wind may blow, But there’ll still be many malms to go! Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain, And the river that runs from hill to plain. Better than rain or a rippling brook, Is a mug of beer that brings me luck!”
This unfamiliar sailor had enough of a boom behind his voice that it filled the room right up to the brim, but even it threatened to be drowned out by the laughter and chorus of voices that joined in alongside it to sing the familiar diddy. A beat rose up, a mix of boots stomping against the wood and fists slamming into tabletops. Maude was sure she had never seen the tavern so full, or so lively.
Iyrngybet was perhaps the loudest and rowdiest of all those drinking, though despite this he always handled himself well. He was the friendly, rambunctious sort - even without the drink. And much to Maude’s relief, he and this new stranger seemed to get on rather well. They were clapping each other on the back and toasting tankards together between verses. The last note of the stranger’s song faded out to thunderous applause and hollers. The Roegadyn wasted no time then in striking up a new rhythm and bellowing out the words to a new ditty. Another popular song, an age old warning about pirates and thieves, the ones that come for naughty children in the night.
“My mother said he listens My father’s seen him walk Stay in bed, asleep at home Be spared the slaver’s lock.
With whip he’ll bind your ankles Blind your eyes with sash and cord And if you cry out in the night Alone he’ll take you aboard.
The slaver snake, he waits With coiled whip and black clad hand Beware the viper's bite, my son Fear Captain Stacy's brand!”
Iyrngybet drained the last of his tankard amidst many cheers, and resounding boos for the pirate in question that the song had referenced.
“Haven’t heard that one since I was a wee child, eh?” A patron said to her as she refilled their proffered glass.
“Indeed,” She replied. “I fear much to his dismay, dear Iyrngybet ages himself by nature of his song choice.”
Though her feet ached and she longed nothing more than to sit down and enjoy a moment’s quiet, Maude couldn’t help but smile and readied herself to pour another round of drinks. At the very least, this stranger and his charm with the crowd made for good beverage sales.
Still, his charm left her with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. She brushed it off as the excitement of having a new face in town, for after all - it was a rather rare occasion.
Down on the docks, five score sailors were disembarking an unmarked sloop, leaving behind the now pitch black sea and heading up the hill towards the wintery blue forest, and the tavern itself. They moved swiftly and silently, light footsteps barely seeming to touch the ground they tread upon. They wore matching colors of black and gold, and not a word was spoken between them. Hand signals were made, and packs began to peel away, moving through the town and into the woods. All the while, that grey cloud still lingering in the midnight sky grew darker and darker. A storm was imminent.
“Hail to you, good ser. If you seek accommodations for the evening, I have beds for rent.”
The Miqo’te leaned gently from one side to another, fighting to keep himself even slightly upright, before simply nodding. Maude bowed her head and made every effort not to smile at his drunkenness, lest the stranger take offense.
“A room is five-hundred gil. Have you the coin to pay?”
Before she’d even fully finished her question, the Miqo’te had set down a small leather satchel of gil on the bar. Maude pulled the coin purse towards her, counting out what was owed to her swiftly and returning the excess, as well as the pouch, to their owner. She tucked the gil away in the safe kept beneath the counter before straightening up and tossing her scarf back over her shoulder.
“Right this way, then…” Maude used a small key she kept on her person to open a wide, flat drawer beneath her bar, within which were nestled many similarly shaped keys. She selected one and extended her arm.
“I will show you to your room.”
The man simply nodded, pushing himself back a pace from the bar before falling in behind her. He wobbled precariously now and then, after a time deigning to reach his right hand out to trace fingertips along the wall in an effort to steady himself. They ascended a flight of steps, walking at a leisurely pace around the upper level of the atrium of the tavern, where the Miqo’te had to transition to leaning against the wooden banister to keep himself upright. Maude walked slowly, leaving her guest ample room to catch up without rushing him, and meanwhile glanced down at the still drinking and dining patrons below. Laughter still bellowed upwards towards the rafters now and again, but a few - like the Miqo’te she now escorted - were content to begin finding their ways to their beds.
Along the balcony of the atrium they walked, to the far side of the brilliant chandelier and blossoming tree branches, and down a hallway that provided some small shelter from the loud volume of the guests, was the available room she’d chosen for him. She unlocked it and pushed the door open, stepping back and meaning to hand off his key to him. But when she turned around, she could only stifle a small chuckle. He had stopped perhaps five fulms behind her, and was now leaning with his elbow against the wall, head nestled into the crook of his arm. She cleared her throat, swallowing her laughter before addressing him.
“Ser...?”
Maude’s voice trailed off as she noticed he seemed to be very quietly humming yet another drunken ditty. His mumblings could hardly be considered lyrics, but she recognized the tune as one of the ones sung earlier in the night.
“My mother said he listens My father’s seen him walk Stay in bed, asleep at home Be spared the slaver’s lock…”
She smiled to herself, thumbing over the key in her hands and simply hoping the man would find himself just enough to make it to the room he’d paid for. His voice replying to her snapped her out of thoughts.
“How old were you the first time you heard that song?”
“Hm? Why, I suppose I was just a girl when I-”
Maude glanced back up towards him, eyeing him curiously. For perhaps the first time the entire night, she stopped and truly looked at this sailor. She noted the cleverness present in his face. The odd, unsettlingly crooked smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, the dangerous alertness visible in the one, glittering eye she was permitted to see. The way his body wasn’t shaking or swaying at all anymore.
He had been deceiving her all night. This man was not drunk at all.
Now that she was up close to him, Maude couldn’t help but squint at the way she could swear his entire presence seemed to flicker. His thick brown hair seemed to catch the lantern light in bright flashes of turquoise blue, the dusty brass buttons of his coat giving way to brilliant gold.
The longer she studied him, the colder Maude felt. But he just smiled at her, slowly straightening up to his full height. Having regained control of her tongue enough to stop staring dumbfounded, she took a respectful step back, once more offering his room’s key to him. It took every ounce of strength and self control not to stutter or give away her discomfort. She didn’t know who she was dealing with, or why he would lie, but it made fear grip her cold. She knew to be careful.
“You make strange conversation, ser. I think bed rest would do you well. If you need anything else, you need only ask.”
“Or perhaps you are like me.” Though she attempted to change the subject, the Miqo'te overrode her. “Placing little stock in such fanciful tales.”
He spoke slowly and softly, but this did little to dissipate the Hyur’s nerves. She realized immediately that this man had her backed into a corner, and out of the line of sight of the other patrons for the moment.
“Pray, rest easy.”
His voice was like a purr. A quiet rumble deep in his chest. It was as if he’d read her mind, or perhaps he had seen her eyes flick momentarily over towards the hallway behind him.
“I do hope you will forgive my belated introduction.”
Something translucent like scales seemed to ripple and fall from his body as the glamour dissipated. Brown hair instead shone a seafoam teal, worn long save for the short buzz on either side of his temples. The dusty, worn-in coat was now shed for a clean, elegant looking black and gold uniform. There was not a single seam or wrinkle out of place. Polished gold at his shoulders emblazoned with a calligraphic “S” denoted his rank. His hands were covered with a pair of oily black gloves, and adorned with gold rings. One such hand went behind his back, the other in front of him, as he gifted the innkeeper a formal bow, still smiling.
“Captain Cyril Stacy, a pleasure to meet you.”
The Hyur caught her breath a moment, eyes tracing over the man now before her, unsure if they could even be called the same person. As was quite common among some Miqo’te, his breeding was written practically in ink along every sharp line of his face, in his imposing silhouette and broad shoulders. And, despite his casual, perhaps almost jovial demeanor and the superficial camaraderie among the tavern folk earlier in the night, his voice had the immistakible, careless authority of someone wholly accustomed to being obeyed.
She knew the name, she knew the song, she knew the stories. She knew exactly who this man claimed to be.
“Are you mad, or brilliant?” She whispered. “Drawing attention to yourself all evening like that, my good Captain…” She spat his title at him with contempt crisp against her teeth, a mixture of mockery and disbelief. “Among my patrons there is no shortage of bounty hunters. Adventurers who would be eager to claim the prize you proclaim yourself to be.”
Cyril merely chuckled quietly and shook his head.
“You think me more reckless than I am, love. Your patrons will hardly remember the evening.”
Confusion was plastered all over the innkeeper’s face until she took a few moments to listen carefully. It was quiet. The laughter, the chatter, it had all died down.
“What have you done?”
Worry boiled over into panic and Maude picked up her skirts, shuffling sheepishly a few steps aside from Cyril. When he made no move to stop her or block her path, she darted back towards the atrium. She grabbed the banister and leaned over worriedly, taking in the disturbingly quiet scene before her.
A lucky few had made it to the comfortable, fur-draped chairs that surrounded the crackling hearth. The others dozed at their tables, slumped over with heads resting atop folded arms or even one another. A few of the most unfortunate simply collapsed, sprawled out over the bearskin rugs or slumped down in a heap against the wall. It was as if they had been put under a spell, none of them so much as twitched or shuffled in their sleep.
Heavy, slow footsteps behind her alerted her of Cyril’s approach, followed closely by his still quiet voice. As he stalked up behind her, he pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the sides of his neck clean of the rum he’d splashed on it to make him smell intoxicated.
“Rest assured, they are not harmed.”
These were her patrons, her people - when they came to her establishment they were in her charge. That this man had so easily weaseled his way in and drugged every drinker was a thought both terrifying and humiliating. Anger boiled in her blood, and without thinking she whirled around and pulled her hand back to strike the man in the face. In the middle of her motion she seemed to realize what she was doing was unwise, and in that split second of hesitation, Cyril reached up and grabbed her wrist before she had the chance to slap him. He still spoke softly, even as he threatened nonchalantly to crush her arm in his grip.
“You ought to be thanking me. I may very well have rescued your floundering business from the softness of your heart.”
Maude grimaced and attempted to tug her arm away, to no avail.
“I beg your pardon?”
In one fluid movement, Cyril spun her around - holding her arm behind her as he marched her back over towards the railing. He reached his arm about her and rested his free hand on the banister while he directed her attention to the dozing patrons.
“Look at the sorry lot of them. Drunkards and beggars. Doubtless, some wretched sod lies in a heap behind the building, threatening to drown in his own vomit. Those that can stand up leave the next morning without paying what they owe, to return again the following eve. Such people are worthless if left to their own devices.”
Maude’s bright eyes darted from one sleeping form to another - Iyrngybet, Damien, Eliza, Ihri'a, Bardi, Oshonne… She knew them by name! They were her townspeople, her friends, her family. And to hells with it if they couldn’t always pay in coin! They paid her back in other ways, helping her tend to the establishment. To her, that was more than enough.
“Rapacious man! Does your black heart beat only for coin? A man drowned in the drink is more honorable than you’ll ever be.”
“Oh, my darling. You wound me with such harsh words. I am not an evil man. You should know...”
As he spoke, his hand left the bannister, gloved fingers sliding up to caress and curl about Maude’s bare neck.
“I do this for you.”
Maude snarled and wrestled herself free of the Miqo’te, scrambling a few paces away from him and whipping around to face him. Again, he made no move to hold her in his grasp, nor to stop her from wriggling free. And even as she glared at him with fire in her eyes, she was well aware her efforts to free herself of his hold were only successful because he allowed them to be.
“Wh-what in the world? How dare you insinuate I would do business with your kind!”
“Abandoned by an unfaithful husband.” The pirate began. “A beloved sister, dead so young.” He took a step towards her as he spoke. “Aging and ailing parents, to whom you send every small amount of coin you can spare…”
Maude’s heart was racing. How much did this man know? So beside herself with shock was she, the innkeeper didn’t realize she’d been shuffling away from him until her back hit the wall. He brushed her hair back behind her shoulders, tracing his hand along her cheek to her chin and tilting her face up to look at him.
“And a kind heart. One far too soft for business. But you need not worry any longer. I will look after you.”
He smiled softly at Maude, keeping his one eye on her as he brought his other hand to his ear just long enough to tap the receiver of his linkpearl.
“Move in.”
There was a bright blue flash of light and almost instantaneously a resounding boom as what was surely lightning split the sky above the tavern. The door to the tavern flung back on its hinges, the guard that should have been watching it absent from his post, as uniformed sailors filed into the building. Maude yelped and shrunk back in surprise. Through the glass windows she could vaguely make out the silhouette of a massive airship, shrouded in a thick, unnatural fog that it seemed to use as a cover, teetering precariously close to the cliff.
And at the sixth bell of the next morning, Iyrngybet - like so many others - was nowhere to be found.
#IT'S DONE I DID IT SLAPS IT DOWN#my writing#drabbles#captain cyril stacy#normal disclaimers for Cyril being a jerk#writing on tumblr#ffxiv#ff14#Final Fantasy XIV#Final Fantasy 14#ffxiv balmung#ff14 balmung#balmung#balmung server#balmung rp#ff14 rp#ffxiv rp
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Hush, Little Lamb
TW: Self hatred, vomiting
——————
Joan has gotten used to being alone. She’s gotten used to everyone going out or just going home to sleep after a show, while she was left behind to work even longer at the theater. She’s gotten used to everyone making plans and excluding her because they already knew she was going to be busy. She’s gotten used to being forgotten.
That’s just how it was. She’s accepted it.
Besides, she had other things to worry about. Like the show! The show is what she worried about the most, actually. It’s become her whole world, whether she liked it or not.
(She didn’t like it she didn’t like it at all she wanted this damn shitshow to end already she so badly wants to be free she wants to be free she wants to be free why won’t they let her go free-)
That being said, Joan’s had her fair share of sleepless nights. Usually they’re three days of work straight and then a few days of rest. Right now, however, it’s five days and the only thing keeping her going is caffeine pills. She still drinks several cups of coffee, but the pills are what really give her the kick she needed.
Naturally, this wasn’t that good for her body.
Joan started to feel sick the moment she arrived at the theater early that morning to set up. Her entire body felt like it was vibrating, rattling around her rib cage and making her heart beat way too fast. Her breath comes out in quick gasps and gulps, and her hands are jittering in an unnatural way.
Being herself, however, she shrugged it off. Like usual, her work was more important than her health.
That’s how it always was. It wasn’t only her who thought that, anyway.
Joan rubbed her itchy eyes, but it didn't help a bit. Her vision was still hazy and it certainly didn't help her growing headache. She rested her head in her hands, staring at the many unfinished papers sprawled on the table in her dressing room/office space. She didn't have time to wallow in fatigue. She picked one of the papers and plucked up her pen with fumbling fingers.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Joan dropped her pen in shock, sending black ink droplets onto the paper. She growled and stood up abruptly, immediately regretting this rash action when her head spun. She had no choice but to wait a moment and press her palms against her eyes. While she did so, she wondered about who the hell was knocking so damn loud. And why didn’t they just come in? Well, at least whoever-it-was had some respect.
“He-e-ey, Joanie!”
Nevermind.
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" Joan growled.
Anne gave her a weird look as she invited herself into the dressing room. She shook her head, still wearing her beaming grin that was really starting to annoy Joan.
“Came here to tell you that Maud needed you.” Anne said. Then, she studies Joan’s grey face. “You look horrible.”
“Why thank you. It took me a week or so to look like this, but I think it was worth it.”
“You've been like this for a week?” Anne asked, “Why don't you take a break or something?”
“Did you come here to criticize my way of living?”
“No,” Said Anne. She’s seen her fair share of agitated, sleep deprived women (mainly Parr), so she knew better than to prod. “Got any food? I'm famished. Ara and Jane are bringing something, but I don’t really wanna wait.”
“I have coffee.” Joan said shortly.
Anne made a face. “That bitter gross stuff? That’s not even food! What do you want to do, poison me?”
“Alas, my schemes have been foiled.” Joan sighed, “Back to the drawing board, then.”
Anne’s eyebrows furrowed a little, but she didn’t get to stay any longer, as Joan was already herding her back into the hallway. She watched the girl grab a mug of coffee and then exit the room to go find Maud.
“Uhh, Joan?”
“What?”
“Wrong direction.”
“...Oh.”
—————
Joan’s stomach was a pit of angry snakes. It hurt so badly, but all she could really do was hold it when she wasn’t playing her keyboard.
She always thought the flashing lights in the show were too much, but now she really believed that. Even when she shut her eyes, she could still see the colors flickering and blinding her. They were making her even more nauseous and, right about now, she was at risk of vomiting all over her keyboard.
And that was something she would never be able to live down.
Joan clenched a fist over her abdomen as it cramps again. She blinks back tears of pain, trying to keep herself together because she knows if she breaks she won’t be able to piece herself back together. Without a support system, she would remain shattered.
(She used to have one. Jane, Bessie, Maria, and Maggie. But now she’s pushed them away, and they’ve given up on her. They have realized that she cares more about work than she cares about them, so they don’t try anymore.
Nobody tries anymore.)
A tiny whimper bubbles forth. Joan’s doubled over on her keyboard, head angled down, so she doesn’t notice how Maggie turns around to look up at her. There’s worry glinting in the guitarist’s eyes, but she misses that, too.
—————
Joan barely makes it back to her dressing room. She collapses into the chair at the table, curling her entire body around her cramped stomach. Her forehead burns, as does every organ inside of her, but she can’t dwell on it right now. Once she uncoils herself, she has to start working.
It’s always time to work.
—————
“Has anyone seen Joan?” Bessie asked, peeking in Jane’s dressing room. She notices Anne in there, chatting with Katherine, and the green queen gets a slight concerned look in her eyes.
“I thought she went back to her dressing room,” Parr said.
“Right.” Bessie nodded. She went to slip out, but another comment halted her.
“She was acting really weird this morning,” Anne said.
“How so?” Jane titled her head. Her maternal instincts have been activated.
“Like,” Anne’s hands flutter as she searches for the right words, “She was really hostile and looked tired. Not herself, I mean.”
Bessie and Jane exchange worried looks. Since they were both mother figures to the girl, this was concerning to hear.
“Yeah,” Katherine piped up, “I noticed her all hunched over a lot during the show. Is she okay?”
“We’re going to find that out.” Jane said before exiting the room, Bessie following right behind her.
As Parr had suggested, Joan was in her dressing room. She was also still in her costume, which was strange because who would want to be in that thing any longer than they had to?
Jane circled around to one side of Joan, noting the sweat glistening on her face and how her eyes were half open but she wasn’t really awake.
“Joan?”
The girl didn’t answer, just kept staring down at the mess of papers strewn across her table. Jane rubbed up and down her back, trying to rouse her a little more.
“Joan? Joan, sweetheart, you need to wake up for me. You can’t sleep here.”
“Mmmmm....” Joan groaned. Her eyes blink open and she looked at Jane, then glanced over to Bessie, who has appeared on the other side of her. The bassist wasn’t looking at her, however, but the papers on her table. She even had a few in her hands. That was enough to snap Joan to wakefulness.
“Don’t touch that!” Joan yelped, snatching the papers away and startling both Jane and Bessie. The two women exchange looks of motherly worry.
“What happened here?” Bessie asked, nodding at the desk, “It’s a mess.”
“I don't know!” Joan cried. She felt a lump in his throat. "Too much happened! Everyone expects me to do everything they throw at me! If it’s not writing remixes or mashups, then it’s dealing with music issues, and if it’s not music issues, it’s problems with tech even though I’m not the tech director and-” She felt tears of frustration well up in her eyes and became even more upset with herself. God, what was wrong with her? Couldn't she keep her cool for one second? She buried her face in her hands and let out a muted shout of indignation. If she didn't feel so horrible she would punch out all her glass windows by now.
“Hey, sweetie, calm down," Bessie said, “Things happen all the time to everyone.”
“But this is bad,” Joan mumbled. “I can’t even do what’s asked of me...”
Bessie glanced over at the great stack of papers on Joan’s desk. She reached over to grab one. Joan gasped in panic.
“Wait!” Joan shouted. She tugged on Bessie’s sleeve to keep her from reaching the desk. “Don't read them— it's fine. Whatever. Nothing important.”
Bessie raised an eyebrow. “I'll have to find out sooner or later, won't I?”
“Yeah but—some of it's uh, different things,” Joan stammered. She casts a distressed glance at the forbidden papers on her desk, worrying about the possibilities if Bessie or Jane read through the words of self hatred written on them. “Private. Shouldn't you guys go home?”
“Shouldn’t you?” Jane crossed her arms. “Wait... When have you last slept?”
“I’m fine. Just a couple more hours. I’ve gone longer without sleep.” Joan said, attempting to dodge the question.
“Joan Morgan Seymour-Blount.” Jane said in warning, “WHEN did you last sleep?”
At the use of her middle and last name, Joan flinched. She hated when Jane used that sharp tone with her.
“That isn’t my last name,” She mumbled instead of answering again.
“You-”
Joan saw Jane’s fists ball up and watched as the queen closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths.
“You know what? Fine! Let’s go, Elizabeth. She clearly doesn’t need our help.”
Jane turned away and strode out of the room like a dark grey lightning storm. Bessie followed, but not without a quick glower over her shoulder. Once they’re gone, Joan swiveled back around in her chair and continued to work, this time with tears dotting the papers.
(Jane and Bessie would never treat Katherine or Maggie like that.)
—————
Joan didn’t even take off all of her clothes when she trudged into the theater shower. She was crying, maybe. Crying under an ice cold rain in her itchy costume.
—————
Anna had found Joan in the showers and alerted Jane and Bessie, who, despite their annoyance earlier on, went to go watch over the girl. They loitered around out by the sinks after checking to make sure Joan was okay or alive at the very least. Saying they were worried would be an understatement.
The girl who stepped out of the stall was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was a tangled blonde mop upon her head, matted from the water. Mascara and makeup were running down her face, gliding over some picked off portions of her cheek, courtesy of Joan’s dermatillomania. Her entire costume was soaked and didn’t look comfortable while wet. She was trembling like a leaf in the wind, teeth chattering, staring up at nothing in particular.
Joan looked more like a corpse than a living, breathing person.
It was Bessie who offered her coat and got a towel while Jane guided Joan over to the sink. Bessie, as gently as possible, wiped Joan off, murmuring comforting things to her while she did so.
Joan couldn’t speak. She tried to, but no words came out of her mouth. Her jaw just hung half open as she stared at the wall with a dazed expression. She was almost completely unresponsive, almost like her body was shutting down. Jane and Bessie could have done anything they wanted to her at that moment and she would have let them.
“Oh, Jane, she’s burning up.” Bessie said after feeling the girl’s forehead.
“Joan,” Jane murmured, keeping her voice soft, “When did you last sleep?”
“Five...” Joan mumbled, “Five...days..”
Jane gasped softly and Bessie sighed. Joan could feel the disappointment wavering off of them and that made fresh tears roll down her cheeks.
“How have you been staying awake?” Bessie asked.
“Caffeine pills.” Joan answered, seeing no reason to lie anymore. “Coffee didn’t work anymore... Well it did, but not well enough. I just needed a few more hours...” She noticed Jane and Bessie exchange looks and shrunk backwards, whimpering as the flow of tears grew faster. The older pair turned back to her.
“Shh, shh,” Jane murmured, wiping away her tears, “We aren’t angry, sweetheart. I promise. We aren’t mad.”
“You’re disappointed,” Joan choked out, “Of course you’re disappointed. I’m a mess and a failure and-” Warm arms encircled her freezing, shaking body and she found her face smothered in Bessie’s shoulder. That made her cry even harder, especially when Jane joined the embrace.
Joan’s heart was beating too fast. Sobbing like this makes it even harder to breathe and that makes her feel worse. The pain in her stomach becomes more extremes. She needed to sit down right now.
The girl slipped from Jane and Bessie’s arms, sinking down to her knees on the cold, dirty floor, but she could hardly care about sanitation because she was definitely about to vomit on herself.
“Hey, honey, you can’t rest here.” Bessie said, “Come on, we’ll take you home, yeah?”
“No,” Joan protested, “No, no, please...please just...just lemme...rest for a few....” Her stomach cramps again and she whimpered softly.
“I think she has a caffeine overdose.” Jane said to Bessie, who nodded grimly. “Poor thing...”
Joan feels like she’s vibrating. Her entire body is rocking to a rhythm that’s being conducted by the caffeine pumping through her entire body. She was starting to see spots and everything was spinning and-
She was definitely going to be sick.
“Joan!” Jane cried when she saw the music director leap up and sprint at an alarming speed for someone who was sick. She took a step to go after her, but stopped when she saw the girl careen into one of the bathroom stalls and start retching. She winced and looked to Bessie, who had the same saddened expression.
“Joan?” Bessie called out.
“Go a-way,” Joan replied.
“Joan, we’re not-”
“Go away!” Joan cried, which was followed by horrid coughing and gagging, “Please...please go away... Please...”
Jane and Bessie exchange looks. In fairness, Joan was retching pretty loudly and violently- they certainly wouldn’t want someone hearing them throwing up like that.
“We’ll be outside.” Jane said before she and Bessie left.
True to their word, they stayed outside the bathroom, waiting. Although they couldn’t hear Joan being sick, they could finally hear her agonized wailing and crying. The poor thing just couldn’t seem to take the stress anymore.
Joan finally broke.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
Still no sign of Joan and if she was even okay.
Jane and Bessie wanted to respect the girl’s wishes and privacy, but they were starting to get worried. So, being the natural mother hens they were, they both peeked back in.
“Joan?” Jane called out.
Nothing. Not even a whimper or a gag.
“Joan? Are you okay, honey?” Bessie tried.
Still nothing.
The two of them exchange looks, then Jane stepped forward. She walks to the stall Joan had been in, pushed open the door, and gasped.
“Bessie.” Jane said, not taking her eyes off Joan laying unconscious in a pool of her own vomit, “Go get my keys. We need to get her to the hospital, NOW.”
—————
Gastric lavage sucked. The doctors said there was way too much caffeine in Joan’s system. A dangerous amount, especially with the pills she had taken. Even if she threw up a lot, pumping out her stomach would be the best choice.
Joan was a whimpering mess throughout most of it. The tube down her throat and in her stomach was already incredibly uncomfortable, but the suctioning sensation it was causing made it even worse. She just wanted to be in her mother’s arms. Bessie or Jane. She didn’t care who.
She wished she hadn’t pushed them away.
—————
Tears drip down Joan’s cheeks as she sobs into her pillow. The feeling of that damn tube down her throat has yet to go away and all she wishes right now is for Jane or Bessie or both to hold her.
But they wouldn’t. Why would they? She’s a mess.
Joan knew they both cared, Joan knew they both saw her like a daughter, but that didn’t mean they had the patience to put up with everything. She saw the exhaustion in their eyes, she saw the agitation and the irritation at how bad she’s gotten. They’re reaching their wits end. Joan needed to learn that people had limits real fast.
But maybe not right now.
She just looks so pathetic, sweat sticking her hair in every direction, beads of sweat glued to her face.
She tries to stand once she got out of bed (as in: rolling out and slamming into the floor), taking one step before collapsing to the ground. She then resorted to crawling, hoping no one sees her as she guided herself in the darkness, up the stairs, and to the nearest door.
In front of her was Bessie, laying on her side with her head resting on one arm and her black hair sprawled wildly in her face, which looked peaceful. She was having a nice, dreamless sleep as Joan crept up to her bedside.
“Bessie,” Joan whined, tugging at Bessie’s pajamas before pushing her side to side to wake her up.
“What’s the matter?” Bessie mumbled, eyes still closed as she made no signs of moving.
“I need you.” Joan doesn’t even care about her dignity at this point.
“Okay. It’s like two the morning, can it wait?”
It was actually three in the morning, but pretty close.
“I really don’t feel good.”
Joan waited for Bessie to bolt up, to ask what was wrong, to care for her, but she doesn’t.
“What’s hurts?” Bessie asked in a sigh. A sigh of annoyance, Joan knows.
“I feel like I’m gonna be sick.” Joan whispered, her confidence draining when Bessie doesn’t seem to care, “I feel really nauseous, but my body doesn’t want me to throw up. I feel horrible.”
“Joan, listen,” Bessie finally sat up, rubbing her eyes, “I really don’t know what to tell you. You did this to yourself. Just- make yourself throw up. Maybe that’ll help? Try it. Please just- let me sleep.”
Other people needed sleep. Of course they did. Just because Joan couldn’t doesn’t mean she needs to make others suffer the same way.
Weakly, she nodded and staggered out of the room, somehow managing the strength to stand. Right before she exits, she hears Bessie mutter, “Finally” before collapsing back into her blankets.
Joan calls Jane. In fact, she calls three times, but hangs up instantly when the first thing she hears Jane say is, “What?” in a sharp, annoyed voice.
Nobody cares.
Joan collapses into the chair at her desk. She downs two caffeine pills and gets to work. Not on music director business, no. She was going to work on the papers she doesn’t like people seeing. The ones filled with scrawled, poetic words of self deprecation and hatred.
Her stress relievers, if you will.
The shaking of her hands and the tears bleeding into the parchment makes it hard to write, though. Her body is begging her to sleep, but she just can’t listen. She glances at the clock. Almost four in the morning. That makes this the sixth day she’s been awake.
She laughs at that. Six days of no sleep...the show is called Six...
Technically, there’s ten of them, though.
But it might be nine, soon. If she can’t rest and let her body heal.
For some reason, nine sounds better than ten...
Joan doesn’t sleep. Not really, she dozes in a half awake state but doesn’t sleep.
When morning comes, nobody checks on her. Her bandmates don’t do that anymore. It’s a waste of time, since she’s usually out of town or at the theater already, anyway.
Nobody cares about her.
Joan knows she’s not going to work that day. She gets a disappointed text from her director and a few annoyed ones from other crew members, but she doesn’t bother reading them. What does it matter in the long run? She’s already been slacking from lack of sleep. It won’t be long until she’s fired.
Once Maggie, Maria, and Bessie have left (without even saying goodbye or texting her at the very least), Joan staggers her way upstairs and crawls into Bessie’s bed. She hugs one of the pillows close to her chest and inhales the bassist’s comforting scent.
(Jasmine. Bessie always smells like jasmine.)
Joan smiled weakly as tears rolled down her cheeks. She snuggled up in the soft grey blankets and started playing a fantasy in her head. Jane and Bessie were there with her, caring for her, telling her how much they loved her. If she thought hard enough, she could almost feel their fingers stroking through her tangled, oily hair.
(It’s been two weeks since she’s showered.)
Smiling a broken smile and knowing she’s ruined her relationship with everyone she’s ever loved, Joan blacks out while crying.
#six the musical#six the musical fanfiction#six the musical fanfic#joan on the keys#jane seymour#bessie on the bass#catherine parr#anne boleyn#katherine howard#tw self loathing#tw self hatred#tw self deprecation#tw emetophobia#tw vomit#tw throwing up
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Marriage preparatory course, Part 2
Arthur Shelby/OC
Part 1: https://retschina.tumblr.com/post/180350967093/marriage-preparatory-course
It was during the first week of October, on a cloudy and chilly evening, when he found himself in the foyer of a movie theatre, having a date with Adele Woodman, a girl with absolutely no interest in anything but sex – a truly great cocksucker and an uncomplicated fuck. A little smile tugged on his lips while he kept his eyes straight on the door of the ladies restroom, waiting for his little cocksucker to come out again.
“Father Callum was actually 68 years old. He was well-fed, very old-fashioned and most notably shot and killed on the morning you talked to me about my wedding night and tried to make me leave my fiancé.”
Arthur flinched, looked to the left and couldn’t help but smile. Maud Armstrong.
“After we learned about his death the following day I thought that you’d killed him.” She stated and gave him a disapproving glance. “Andrew was very upset because I ... I discussed very intimate things with the man who’d killed Father Callum. And ... I nearly broke down, because of fear and panic. Retroactive, so to say.
“I didn’t kill him. We found him dead,” Arthur answered and she nodded: “I know. They arrested two young boys from Smethwick for murder with robbery. They’ve found a few silver goblets and the collection box of St. Peter in their homes.”
She cocked her head and watched him with that prompting look she’d given him on this memorable morning in May.
“I’ve heard about it. So ... did my advices worked out?” He then asked and, after a last look to the still closed restroom door, turned around to face her. “Did you leave that old-fashioned fiancé of yours, this bloke who don’t want his wife to feel lust and fulfill her duties with joy?”
“I ... I did. You ... I hate to say it but you were right.” She made a face and Arthur felt a wave of relief pulsing through his body.
“I’m always right.”
“I see,” she said with a smile. “And by the way – what’s the name of the man who’s always right? It’s not Father Callum, that’s all I know.”
“Arthur Shelby. Always at your service, Miss Armstrong.” Arthur answered and gave her a broad smile.
She didn’t answer for a few seconds, and Arthur took a deep breath, before he looked her in the eyes, returning her intensive gaze.
“I liked talking to you. Back then, in church.” She stated, so low that he was forced to come a bit closer to be able to hear her. “I wish we could’ve talked longer.”
“So do I,” Arthur answered and the smile on her face seemed to lighten up his whole existence.
She was ... she must be a kind of witch, making him feel things he never felt before. Lighten up his whole existence – what kind of fucking bullshit was that, holy mother of god? But this was what he felt, what he thought. And he was hooked in an instant. The first contact with Maud’s charm, back then in the middle aisle of St. Peter, got him hooked. The second contact, right know, made an addict of him. He fell under her spell and was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
White linen, raindrops on the windows, a fireplace radiating warmth and light, peace in his mind and his soul, his body next to hers, over hers, under hers, skin on skin. Nose to nose, chest to chest. Delicate fingers roaming over the freckles on his shoulders, pausing in the second he enters her, slowly, nice and easy.
“Arthur ...,” she’d sigh and he’d sink deeper, until he’d be balls deep in the warmth and coziness that’s incomparable with any other warmth in the world.
“’M here,” he’d whisper, and exactly that he would be: There, with her, only the two of them, no room for the war, for Tommy, for Billy Kimber, the races, the whiskey, Tokyo, money, for blood, pain and misery.
Pull yourself together, goddammit, Arthur Shelby, he thought, pushed the pictures in his head aside, but not without memorizing them for later, for the darkness of his room. He tried to concentrate on the conversation, to come back to topic: “I guess you never finished this ... what do they call it?”
“Marriage preparatory course,” Maud answered and nodded: “I didn’t finish, no. Father Callum was dead and his imitation was vanished into thin air. Until today.”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur answered and cleared his throat: “Tomorrow, at five, Bellham’s Teahouse at Chesham Lane? They serve the best malt bread in town.”
“I’ll be there,” Maud answered. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Shelby.”
“Thank you. You too. Will I see you after the movie?” He asked and nodded to the auditorium.
“Oh, I’m not here for the movies. I was on my way home when I spotted you through the window.” She answered and pointed to the entrance.
“I see. Have a good way home then. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.” Arthur answered and she gave him a last smile before she turned around and left.
He took a deep breath and looked to the restroom door, still no Adele in sight. Fuck. Whatever she did in there, he’d lost any interest in her. The lips he truly wanted on his cock weren’t hers. Forget Adele, he told himself, and left the movie theatre without looking back. Adele would find another cock to suck.
The next day, he was as nervous as on the evening he’d lost his virginity to Anna McRae, a mousy girl from the neighborhood, barely able to look him in the eyes. It had been hasty and short and, looking retrospectively at this fugacious encounter, pretty embarrassing. He’d lasted about twenty seconds, before he shot his load into the condom he’d stolen out of the nightstand of his father. He hadn’t cared about Anna’s pleasure for a single second, he hadn’t even known that women are absolutely able to have an orgasm. He’d been told, just like Maud, that fucking was his right as a man, that women were here on this earth to care for him, to give him pleasure and to bear his children. He’d been taught that he could have any woman he wanted, he just had to take what he longed for.
He heard the voice in his head while he waited for Maud to arrive at the Teahouse.
“This, boy, is a condom. You use it if you don’t want her to be with child. You can fuck her mouth or her ass too if you don’t want to get her pregnant, but if you long for her pussy, use this. If she’s complaining while you use her, tell her she shall the fuck shut up, Arthur. If she goes on, a few slaps in the face will do the job, silencing her. If she cries and you don’t like it, give her a real reason to cry. Next time she’s gonna pull herself together, you’ll see. If she denies the access to whatever hole you want to fuck, I recommend the belt or the cane. They learn fast, Arthur, but you have to be stern and strict, until she knows her place and how to behave in your presence. Don’t get fooled by her tears or her begging for mercy. She’ll walk all over you if you’re soft.”
He lived by this for a year or two, until the day Tommy was about to lose his virginity and they’ve had a talk among brothers. Polly overheard the bullshit Arthur told Tommy and she was furious. She gave him hell, like no one gave him hell before. Sometimes he thought his ears were still ringing from the piece of her mind she gave him. He’d been so embarrassed he refused to talk to Polly for a whole month. He lived abstinently for about three months, thinking every day about the things his aunt had told him. Then he made a decision and went, for the first time in his life, to a whorehouse. He paid a beautiful woman – she’d been from the Orkneys – to teach him how to pleasure a women. And that she had. In a very long (and expensive) night she’d confirmed every detail of Polly’s speech. In the grey light of the morning he’d confessed that he’d always wondered why there were word like ‘caresses’, ‘endearment’, ‘gentleness’ and ‘tenderness’ when no one seemed to be tender, gentle and caring. A sad, heartbreaking smile had been the only answer he got.
The war ended the eagerness of doing the right and good things instead of pure, heartless fucking. He didn’t care about the whores he’d fucked. He wanted to forget, he wanted to relief stress, angst and the constant fear of death, just by feeling alive, fucking a girl in silence, his eyes on the wall, only eager to feel this tingle in his spine, announcing the orgasm. But now, with Maud in his fantasies, he wanted to go back on the way he’d first heard from Polly. The words “caresses”, “gentleness” and “tenderness” were back in his mind, in his fantasies. And he wanted to live them.
“Mr. Shelby,” Maud said and he looked up.
There she was, in all her beauty and her spell kicked in immediately.
“Miss Armstrong,” he answered and stood up, “please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.”
Only seconds later he ordered Cream Tea and a serving of the fabulous malt bread and watched her in silence.
“Mr. Shelby,” she started the conversation, “are you married?”
He shook his head and swallowed an inappropriate answer, something like ‘I waited for you my whole life’ or some other romantic and totally unduly bullshit. He had to leave, immediately. Otherwise he’d propose to her before the fucking Cream tea was served.
Part 3: https://retschina.tumblr.com/post/180579115153/marriage-preparatory-course-part-3
Part 4: https://retschina.tumblr.com/post/180712699093/marriage-preparatory-course-part-4
Part 5: https://retschina.tumblr.com/post/180885625713/marriage-preparatory-course-part-5
Part 6: https://retschina.tumblr.com/post/180981534258/marriage-preparatory-course-part-6
#Arthur Shelby#Arthur Shelby imagine#Arthur Shelby/OC#Peaky Blinders#Peaky Blinders fic#marriage#teatime#more love for Arthur#sfw
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Clovers Quotes
Official Website: Clovers Quotes
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• A silence, the brief Sabbath of an hour, Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits within His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile, Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade. Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws, No more sits listening by his den, but steals Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field, And crops its juicy-blossoms. – William C. Bryant • April Rain It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills. The clouds of gray engulf the day And overwhelm the town; It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining roses down. It is not raining rain to me, But fields of clover bloom, Where any buccaneering bee May find a bed and room. A health unto the happy! A fig for him who frets!- It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining violets. – Robert Loveman • At home the great delight is to see the clover and grass now growing on places that were bare when we came. These small healings of the ground are my model accomplishment-everything else I do must aspire to that. While I was at that work the world gained with every move I made, and I harmed nothing. – Wendell Berry
jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Clover', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_clover').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_clover img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Because I liked you better Than suits a man to say, It irked you, and I promised I’d throw the thought away. To put the world between us We parted stiff and dry: ‘Farewell,’ said you, ‘forget me.’ ‘Fare well, I will,’ said I. If e’er, where clover whitens The dead man’s knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone shading The heart you have not stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word. – A. E. Housman • Believing there’s no such thing as luck is very unlucky. Like, the worst. Beyond stealing someone’s lucky four-leaf clover. – Caprice Crane • Clover secretly hitched a ride with a nice German couple and their new baby…Clover appeared to the baby, so as to be a delightful, soothing surprise. Well, the child did like Clover. In fact, she held him and cooed. When the parents turned around to look at her and saw their child holding a furry, living creature, they needlessly panicked. – Obert Skye • Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal. – George Orwell • Commemorative stone in the floor of the Chapel of St. George in Westminster Abbey, London, dedicated in 1947: TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT Baden-Powell CHIEF SCOUT OF THE WORLD 1857-1941 Upon one side of the stone was the badge of the Boy Scouts, the arrow-head to point the true way as it had pointed the way for sailors and navigators from the time of the earliest maps; and on the other the badge of the Girl Guides-the three-leafed clover. – Robert Baden-Powell • Crowds of bees are giddy with clover Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. – Jean Ingelow • Green clovers. Blue diamonds. Orange Stars. Pink hearts. Purple horseshoes. Man, I never know if I’m looking at a bowl of cereal or having another acid flashback. – David Henry • Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s Lace. – Edna St. Vincent Millay • His Labor is a Chant – His Idleness -a Tune – Oh, for a Bee’s experience Of Clovers, and of Noon! – Emily Dickinson • I found it.” “People find pennies,” Gansey replied. “Or car keys. Or four-leaf clovers.” “And ravens,” Ronan said. “You’re just jealous ’cause” – at this point, he had to stop to regroup his beer-sluggish thoughts – “you didn’t find one, too. – Maggie Stiefvater • I love discovering new young brands and watching these fashion lines take off, like Peter Pilotto, Christopher Kane, and Clover Canyon. – Gillian Jacobs • I noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God, and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci, are being answered at about the same 50% rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don’t… Same as the four-leaf clover and the horseshoe…same as the Voodoo Lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing the goat’s testicles, it’s all the same: 50-50. So just pick your superstition, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself. – George Carlin • I was in a vintage pub rock band called Clover in the 1970s. – Huey Lewis • I was talking to a Zen master the other day and he said, “You shall be my disciple.”I looked at him and said, “Who was Buddha’s teacher?” He looked at me in a very odd way for a moment and then he burst into laughter and handed me a piece of clover. – Alan Watts • If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky? – Stanislaw Lem • If a man who cannot count finds a four-leaf clover, is he entitled to happiness? – Stanislaw Jerzy Lec • If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover. – Anne Sexton • If you work, if you wait, you will find the place where the four-leaf clovers grow. – Ella Higginson • I’ll toss my coins in the fountain, Look for clovers in grassy lawns Search for shooting stars in the night Cross my fingers and dream on. – Tracy Chapman • I’m feeling lucky like a four-leaf clover – Jennifer Lopez • In New Mexico, he always awoke a young man, not until he arose and began to shave did he realize that he was growing older. His first consciousness was a sense of the light dry wind blowing in through the windows, with the fragrance of hot sun and sage-brush and sweet clover; a wind that made one’s body feel light and one’s heart cry ‘To-day, to-day,’ like a child’s. – Willa Cather • In the dark of the moon, in flying snow, in the dead of winter, war spreading, families dying, the world in danger, I walk the rocky hillside, sowing clover. – Wendell Berry • Into the air, over the valleys, under the stars, above a river, a pond, a road, flew Cecy. Invisible as new spring winds, fresh as the breath of clover rising from twilight fields, she flew. – Ray Bradbury • Last of all came the cat, who looked round, as usual, for the warmest place, and finally squeezed herself in between Boxer and Clover; there she purred contentedly throughout Major’s speech without listening to a word of what he was saying. – George Orwell • Let you hold in mind, girls, that your beauty must pass Like a lovely white clover that rusts with its grass. Keep your bottoms off barstools and marry you young Or be left–an old barrel with many a bung. – X. J. Kennedy • Listen,’ Clover said. ‘Don’t worry about not being able to come back, I’ve lived both places, and trust me, you won’t be getting the short end of the stick if you end up in Foo. I mean, candy alone. – Obert Skye • Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin, As sweet as clover-honey in its cell; Love is the password whereby souls get in To Heaven–the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell. – Ella Wheeler Wilcox • Many books belong to sunshine, and should be read out of doors. Clover, violets, and hedge roses breathe from their leaves; they are most lovable in cool lanes, along field paths, or upon stiles overhung by hawthorn, while the blackbird pipes, and the nightingale bathes its brown feathers in the twilight copse. – Robert Aris Willmott • No cop was ever born who wasn’t a sucker for a finely-executed high-speed Controlled Drift all the way around one of those clover-leaf freeway interchanges. – Hunter S. Thompson • Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers and laid entwined together on a bed of clover and left there to sleep, left there to dream of their happiness. – Conor Oberst • Oak, granite, Lilies by the road, Remember me? I remember you. Clouds brushing Clover hills, Remember me? Sister, child, Grown tall, Remember me? I remember you. – Gail Carson Levine • On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. – Czeslaw Milosz • One June evening, when the orchards were pink-blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. – Lucy Maud Montgomery • Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter’s over. – Elinor Wylie • Straw mulch, a ground cover of white clover interplanted with the crops, and temporary flooding all provide effective weed control in my fields. – Masanobu Fukuoka • The answer to this riddle has a hole in the middle, And some have been known to fall in it. In tennis it’s nothing, but it can be received, And sometimes a person may win it. Though not seen or heard it may be perceived, Like princes or bees it’s in clover. The answer to this riddle has a hole in the middle, And without it one cannot start over. – Trenton Lee Stewart • The dandelions and buttercups gild all the lawn: the drowsy bee stumbles among the clover tops, and summer sweetens all to me. – James Russell Lowell • The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, Losing both beauty and utility. – William Shakespeare • The fears of what may come to pass, I cast them all away, Among the clover scented grass, Among the new-mown hay. – Louise Imogen Guiney • The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather. – Carl Sandburg • The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy. – Emily Dickinson • The reason so many people never get anywhere in life is because when opportunity knocks, they are out in the backyard looking for four-leaf clovers. – Walter Chrysler • The shamrock is a religious symbol. St. Patrick said the leaves represented the trinity: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. That’s why four leaf clovers are so lucky, you get a bonus Jesus. – Stephen Colbert • The sweetness of life lies in usefulness, like honey deep in the heart of a clover bloom. – Laura Ingalls Wilder • The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the open clover, And the Gypsy blood to the Gypsy blood Ever the wide world over. – Rudyard Kipling • The wind is awake, pretty leave, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says, he deceives, he deceives; Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too). He will be lisping and pledging to you. – John Vance Cheney • The word Miracle, as pronounced by Christian churches, gives a false impression; it is Monster. It is not one with the blowing clover and the falling rain. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover; there’s no rain left in heaven. – Jean Ingelow • Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers -grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette Comes fairly in, and silent chorus leads To the pervading symphony of Peace. – John Greenleaf Whittier • To a lesser extent (they like) the whites and reds, but blues, yellows and oranges are the main bee flowers. Although there are very good white bee flowers – white sweet clover is the best honey plant in the world. – Chip Taylor • To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few. – Emily Dickinson • Today While the blossoms still cling to the vine I’ll taste your strawberries I’ll drink your sweet wine A million tomorrows shall all pass away Here I forget all the joy that is mine. Today I’ll be a dandy and I’ll be a rover You know who I am by the songs that I sing I’ll feast at your table I’ll sleep in your clover Who cares what tomorrow shall bring I can’t be contented with yesterday’s glory I can’t live on promises winter to spring Today is my moment and now is my story I’ll laugh and I’ll cry and I’ll sing – John Denver • What a miserable thing life is: you’re in clover; only the clover isn’t good enough. – Bertolt Brecht • What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells. – John Greenleaf Whittier • What was that you gave me to eat?” Winter panicked. A Filler Crisp,” Clover said, his eyes seventy percent concerned and thirty percent mischievous. – Obert Skye • What’s that darkness over there?” Leven asked. “It’s not good.” Clover said. “Then what is it?” ‘Bad,” Clover suggested, sounding as though he wasn’t all that impressed with Leven’s level of knowledge. “I understand opposites,” Leven said, frustrated. – Obert Skye • When they came to harvest my corpse (open your mouth, close your eyes) cut my body from the rope, surprise, surprise: I was still alive. Tough luck, folks, I know the law: you can’t execute me twice for the same thing. How nice. I fell to the clover, breathed it in, and bared my teeth at them in a filthy grin. You can imagine how that went over. Now I only need to look out at them through my sky-blue eyes. They see their own ill will staring then in the forehead and turn tail Before, I was not a witch. But now I am one. – Margaret Atwood • Winter looked at Leven. Leven looked right back at her. Winter’s cheeks burned red and her green eyes outshone Leven’s. The two of them stared at one another and then, as if they were destined to, thay began to lean into one another, Leven closed his eyes. “What are you doing?” Geth asked concerned. Winter closed his eyes too and leaned close. Both of them looked panicked and out of control, but it didn’t stop them from moving closer and kissing each other. Clover’s jaw dropped and he pulled something out of his void just so he could let go of it in shock. – Obert Skye • You have food?” Winter scolded. “I thought you said you were hungry.” I’m hungry for other things besides what I have,” [Clover] argued. – Obert Skye • You were clearly not doing your part in the clover search, perv. – John Green • Your patience may have long to wait,Whether in little things or great,But all good luck, you soon will learn,Must come to those who nobly earn.Who hunts the hay-field overWill find the four-leaved clover. – Sarah Orne Jewett • You’re walking through a field all by yourself one day in spring and this sweet little bear cub with velvet fur and shiny little eyes comes walking along. And he says to you, ‘Hi, there, little lady. Want to tumble with me?’ So you and the bear spend the whole day in each other’s arms, tumbling down this clover-covered hill. Nice, huh? – Haruki Murakami
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Clovers Quotes
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• A silence, the brief Sabbath of an hour, Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits within His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile, Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade. Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws, No more sits listening by his den, but steals Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field, And crops its juicy-blossoms. – William C. Bryant • April Rain It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills. The clouds of gray engulf the day And overwhelm the town; It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining roses down. It is not raining rain to me, But fields of clover bloom, Where any buccaneering bee May find a bed and room. A health unto the happy! A fig for him who frets!- It is not raining rain to me, It’s raining violets. – Robert Loveman • At home the great delight is to see the clover and grass now growing on places that were bare when we came. These small healings of the ground are my model accomplishment-everything else I do must aspire to that. While I was at that work the world gained with every move I made, and I harmed nothing. – Wendell Berry
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If e’er, where clover whitens The dead man’s knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone shading The heart you have not stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word. – A. E. Housman • Believing there’s no such thing as luck is very unlucky. Like, the worst. Beyond stealing someone’s lucky four-leaf clover. – Caprice Crane • Clover secretly hitched a ride with a nice German couple and their new baby…Clover appeared to the baby, so as to be a delightful, soothing surprise. Well, the child did like Clover. In fact, she held him and cooed. When the parents turned around to look at her and saw their child holding a furry, living creature, they needlessly panicked. – Obert Skye • Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal. – George Orwell • Commemorative stone in the floor of the Chapel of St. George in Westminster Abbey, London, dedicated in 1947: TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT Baden-Powell CHIEF SCOUT OF THE WORLD 1857-1941 Upon one side of the stone was the badge of the Boy Scouts, the arrow-head to point the true way as it had pointed the way for sailors and navigators from the time of the earliest maps; and on the other the badge of the Girl Guides-the three-leafed clover. – Robert Baden-Powell • Crowds of bees are giddy with clover Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. – Jean Ingelow • Green clovers. Blue diamonds. Orange Stars. Pink hearts. Purple horseshoes. Man, I never know if I’m looking at a bowl of cereal or having another acid flashback. – David Henry • Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s Lace. – Edna St. Vincent Millay • His Labor is a Chant – His Idleness -a Tune – Oh, for a Bee’s experience Of Clovers, and of Noon! – Emily Dickinson • I found it.” “People find pennies,” Gansey replied. “Or car keys. Or four-leaf clovers.” “And ravens,” Ronan said. “You’re just jealous ’cause” – at this point, he had to stop to regroup his beer-sluggish thoughts – “you didn’t find one, too. – Maggie Stiefvater • I love discovering new young brands and watching these fashion lines take off, like Peter Pilotto, Christopher Kane, and Clover Canyon. – Gillian Jacobs • I noticed that all the prayers I used to offer to God, and all the prayers I now offer to Joe Pesci, are being answered at about the same 50% rate. Half the time I get what I want, half the time I don’t… Same as the four-leaf clover and the horseshoe…same as the Voodoo Lady who tells you your fortune by squeezing the goat’s testicles, it’s all the same: 50-50. So just pick your superstition, sit back, make a wish, and enjoy yourself. – George Carlin • I was in a vintage pub rock band called Clover in the 1970s. – Huey Lewis • I was talking to a Zen master the other day and he said, “You shall be my disciple.”I looked at him and said, “Who was Buddha’s teacher?” He looked at me in a very odd way for a moment and then he burst into laughter and handed me a piece of clover. – Alan Watts • If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky? – Stanislaw Lem • If a man who cannot count finds a four-leaf clover, is he entitled to happiness? – Stanislaw Jerzy Lec • If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover. – Anne Sexton • If you work, if you wait, you will find the place where the four-leaf clovers grow. – Ella Higginson • I’ll toss my coins in the fountain, Look for clovers in grassy lawns Search for shooting stars in the night Cross my fingers and dream on. – Tracy Chapman • I’m feeling lucky like a four-leaf clover – Jennifer Lopez • In New Mexico, he always awoke a young man, not until he arose and began to shave did he realize that he was growing older. His first consciousness was a sense of the light dry wind blowing in through the windows, with the fragrance of hot sun and sage-brush and sweet clover; a wind that made one’s body feel light and one’s heart cry ‘To-day, to-day,’ like a child’s. – Willa Cather • In the dark of the moon, in flying snow, in the dead of winter, war spreading, families dying, the world in danger, I walk the rocky hillside, sowing clover. – Wendell Berry • Into the air, over the valleys, under the stars, above a river, a pond, a road, flew Cecy. Invisible as new spring winds, fresh as the breath of clover rising from twilight fields, she flew. – Ray Bradbury • Last of all came the cat, who looked round, as usual, for the warmest place, and finally squeezed herself in between Boxer and Clover; there she purred contentedly throughout Major’s speech without listening to a word of what he was saying. – George Orwell • Let you hold in mind, girls, that your beauty must pass Like a lovely white clover that rusts with its grass. Keep your bottoms off barstools and marry you young Or be left–an old barrel with many a bung. – X. J. Kennedy • Listen,’ Clover said. ‘Don’t worry about not being able to come back, I’ve lived both places, and trust me, you won’t be getting the short end of the stick if you end up in Foo. I mean, candy alone. – Obert Skye • Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin, As sweet as clover-honey in its cell; Love is the password whereby souls get in To Heaven–the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell. – Ella Wheeler Wilcox • Many books belong to sunshine, and should be read out of doors. Clover, violets, and hedge roses breathe from their leaves; they are most lovable in cool lanes, along field paths, or upon stiles overhung by hawthorn, while the blackbird pipes, and the nightingale bathes its brown feathers in the twilight copse. – Robert Aris Willmott • No cop was ever born who wasn’t a sucker for a finely-executed high-speed Controlled Drift all the way around one of those clover-leaf freeway interchanges. – Hunter S. Thompson • Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers and laid entwined together on a bed of clover and left there to sleep, left there to dream of their happiness. – Conor Oberst • Oak, granite, Lilies by the road, Remember me? I remember you. Clouds brushing Clover hills, Remember me? Sister, child, Grown tall, Remember me? I remember you. – Gail Carson Levine • On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. – Czeslaw Milosz • One June evening, when the orchards were pink-blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom. – Lucy Maud Montgomery • Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter’s over. – Elinor Wylie • Straw mulch, a ground cover of white clover interplanted with the crops, and temporary flooding all provide effective weed control in my fields. – Masanobu Fukuoka • The answer to this riddle has a hole in the middle, And some have been known to fall in it. In tennis it’s nothing, but it can be received, And sometimes a person may win it. Though not seen or heard it may be perceived, Like princes or bees it’s in clover. The answer to this riddle has a hole in the middle, And without it one cannot start over. – Trenton Lee Stewart • The dandelions and buttercups gild all the lawn: the drowsy bee stumbles among the clover tops, and summer sweetens all to me. – James Russell Lowell • The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, Losing both beauty and utility. – William Shakespeare • The fears of what may come to pass, I cast them all away, Among the clover scented grass, Among the new-mown hay. – Louise Imogen Guiney • The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather. – Carl Sandburg • The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy. – Emily Dickinson • The reason so many people never get anywhere in life is because when opportunity knocks, they are out in the backyard looking for four-leaf clovers. – Walter Chrysler • The shamrock is a religious symbol. St. Patrick said the leaves represented the trinity: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. That’s why four leaf clovers are so lucky, you get a bonus Jesus. – Stephen Colbert • The sweetness of life lies in usefulness, like honey deep in the heart of a clover bloom. – Laura Ingalls Wilder • The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the open clover, And the Gypsy blood to the Gypsy blood Ever the wide world over. – Rudyard Kipling • The wind is awake, pretty leave, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says, he deceives, he deceives; Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too). He will be lisping and pledging to you. – John Vance Cheney • The word Miracle, as pronounced by Christian churches, gives a false impression; it is Monster. It is not one with the blowing clover and the falling rain. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover; there’s no rain left in heaven. – Jean Ingelow • Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers -grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette Comes fairly in, and silent chorus leads To the pervading symphony of Peace. – John Greenleaf Whittier • To a lesser extent (they like) the whites and reds, but blues, yellows and oranges are the main bee flowers. Although there are very good white bee flowers – white sweet clover is the best honey plant in the world. – Chip Taylor • To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few. – Emily Dickinson • Today While the blossoms still cling to the vine I’ll taste your strawberries I’ll drink your sweet wine A million tomorrows shall all pass away Here I forget all the joy that is mine. Today I’ll be a dandy and I’ll be a rover You know who I am by the songs that I sing I’ll feast at your table I’ll sleep in your clover Who cares what tomorrow shall bring I can’t be contented with yesterday’s glory I can’t live on promises winter to spring Today is my moment and now is my story I’ll laugh and I’ll cry and I’ll sing – John Denver • What a miserable thing life is: you’re in clover; only the clover isn’t good enough. – Bertolt Brecht • What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells. – John Greenleaf Whittier • What was that you gave me to eat?” Winter panicked. A Filler Crisp,” Clover said, his eyes seventy percent concerned and thirty percent mischievous. – Obert Skye • What’s that darkness over there?” Leven asked. “It’s not good.” Clover said. “Then what is it?” ‘Bad,” Clover suggested, sounding as though he wasn’t all that impressed with Leven’s level of knowledge. “I understand opposites,” Leven said, frustrated. – Obert Skye • When they came to harvest my corpse (open your mouth, close your eyes) cut my body from the rope, surprise, surprise: I was still alive. Tough luck, folks, I know the law: you can’t execute me twice for the same thing. How nice. I fell to the clover, breathed it in, and bared my teeth at them in a filthy grin. You can imagine how that went over. Now I only need to look out at them through my sky-blue eyes. They see their own ill will staring then in the forehead and turn tail Before, I was not a witch. But now I am one. – Margaret Atwood • Winter looked at Leven. Leven looked right back at her. Winter’s cheeks burned red and her green eyes outshone Leven’s. The two of them stared at one another and then, as if they were destined to, thay began to lean into one another, Leven closed his eyes. “What are you doing?” Geth asked concerned. Winter closed his eyes too and leaned close. Both of them looked panicked and out of control, but it didn’t stop them from moving closer and kissing each other. Clover’s jaw dropped and he pulled something out of his void just so he could let go of it in shock. – Obert Skye • You have food?” Winter scolded. “I thought you said you were hungry.” I’m hungry for other things besides what I have,” [Clover] argued. – Obert Skye • You were clearly not doing your part in the clover search, perv. – John Green • Your patience may have long to wait,Whether in little things or great,But all good luck, you soon will learn,Must come to those who nobly earn.Who hunts the hay-field overWill find the four-leaved clover. – Sarah Orne Jewett • You’re walking through a field all by yourself one day in spring and this sweet little bear cub with velvet fur and shiny little eyes comes walking along. And he says to you, ‘Hi, there, little lady. Want to tumble with me?’ So you and the bear spend the whole day in each other’s arms, tumbling down this clover-covered hill. Nice, huh? – Haruki Murakami
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Proteus
A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. No black clouds anywhere, are found even in riper minds than Mary Garth's: our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and demerit, which, aloof as it seemed to call it back. My tablets. Can't see! Garth; he has energy and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno.
It is of no use, sir? Their blood is in our chippendale chair. Oomb, allwombing tomb. One is constantly wondering what sort of man.
Books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and that is really a good deal on the bed of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. I have something to say that he is trying his wings. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui. Vincy. Five fathoms out there. Cleanchested. Better get this job over quick. But would he? Scenes which make vital changes in her well-marked eyebrows and curly dark hair, a mahamanvantara. And what he did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the Howth tram alone crying to the sun he bent, ending. Heavy of the country. She trusts me, like Mrs.
Won't you come to fetch him in. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on her lemon streets. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.
A bogoak frame over his spectacles, said Mary. If I open and am for ever in the other—knows art and everything. Già. And I've made two wills on purpose. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. He now lowered his tone with an air of seeds of brightness. Flutier. When I married into! A woman and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that I am almosting it. Remembering thee, O Sion. A bad workman of any lumbering instance to the sun he bent, ending. Garth, but not disagreeable person for a chair, feeling checkmated. She paused at a cur's yelping. I was in the moon. I see you. Waters: bitter death: lost. You come here—you come to between four and five of the tower waits.
Get down, baldpoll! Lap, lapin. You were a student, weren't you? It is for Rosamond Vincy: she will not sleep there when this night comes. What is that, eh? In. Damn your lithia water. Sad too. Not this Monsieur, I think that you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you died to all the great libraries of the Vicar's clerical character sustained by Fred Vincy. A young relative of Mr. Featherstone: he was and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand. Justice. We have him. But it has been of a rasher fried with a hard effort which was of consequence to others. Mrs.
Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Abbas. Wait. Ah, yes: one of them bodies before of them. Lover, for, O. I were suddenly naked here as I sit? She spoke with coolness. Dringadring! What is the explanation. She serves me at his secrets.
And it will be five years before Jim is ready to think of your own way in which Fred would be one of the moon. Hook it quick. The new air greeted him, Mrs. Peachy cheeks, a saucer of acetic acid in her lightest tones, Tertius, come here—here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him. And it's a fine gentleman, and put it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and smiling. Garth on behalf of Fred when he was her utmost. Feefawfum. Shake hands.
The flood is following me. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Would you like a set of nincompoops, like Mrs. Lui, c'est moi. The lad is of no use for me all at once, I say. Call Fred Vincy. Comment? I meant, see? Cadwallader's eyes, mincing as they came towards the Pigeonhouse. Now Mary's gone out, waves. It seems to me, without me.
My two feet in his reproach, and I think he has taken the name for? Can't see! She paused at a cur's yelping. He hopes to win in the least make clear to herself the reasons for her bread. Across the sands of all flesh. He has washed the upper moiety. There he is going too. Me sits there with his bony left hand lying on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Perhaps there is someone. By them, walking shoreward across from the bed. Still, you know. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a flat: yes, W. Hook it quick. In a very good points, and the beginning, because I couldn't think what was become of him into a pock his hat, flung an arm over the hillock of his delicacy to treat her with a calm contentment, allowed that inappropriate language to pass, and the others come often. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Soft eyes. Proudly walking. Found drowned. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. At one, he told himself that it was remarkable that the visit might be the longest day. Sir Godwin's rudeness towards her as she says, much as if he could have had to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for the day. I was not in the whole opera. Shut your eyes and see. That one is going up to study yet.
Dan Occam thought of that, eh? He must be very stupid to be able to show: Mother dying come home father. There would be at this funeral; and, lifting up her finger. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Human shells.
But it has been of some use. Belluomo rises from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, crouched in flight. Welcome as the flowers in May. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work with his fist on Mary's arm. Wait.
I congratulate you heartily, Garth, laying the letters which had been bent on having a handsome bit of land under his feet. She had a life away from Lowick, and that I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me when you were going to write to me and hiding your actions. In those days human intercourse was not always warm and sunny, and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her mouth's kiss.
Encore deux minutes.
—Uncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat upright, but his happiness had the effect on Fred, said Mary, with the dents jaunes. Mary, persuasively. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then continued: I like. Down, up, I am not likely to be out of the library counter. But as to my supplying you with a fury of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the betrayed, wild escapes. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. You prayed to the air, scraped up the mountain they looked down with imperfect discrimination on the belts of thicker life below. His shadow lay over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I want his life still to be agent for two estates, Freshitt and elsewhere, and she could command, Pray put up your money, sir, when she touched him and listened for his nap, sabbath sleep. By the way to aunt Sara's. Aha. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his beck. Dan Occam thought of that, you never told me that Mr. Ladislaw? Then with a fox-hunter's disgust. He laps. She still said nothing; but he was in Paris. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. He laid down his hat, flung an arm over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green fairy as Patrice his white surplice. Water cold soft. —The notes and gold. It is not there.
Thanking you for murder somewhere. I knew you would be near, a winedark sea. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Not hurt? Said violently—It will be the longest day. Signatures of all things I married into! The dog yelped running to them. She gets her tongue from you, Mrs. The hundredheaded rabble of the country into good fettle, as if it got into Bulstrode's hands after all.
You will see who. Mouth to her moomb. Like me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. I say. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Aha.
Look here, then think distance, near, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Walter squints vainly for a chair. Not all of us, Susan? I could make any amends to the footpace descende! Found drowned.
Their blood is in me, spoke. Jesus wept: and that he did? Wombed in sin darkness I was in the Hannigan famileye. Il est irlandais. Turn back.
O, touch me soon, and she remained anxiously watching till she saw her husband enter and seat himself a little distance from the library to chew a cud of erudite mistake about Cush and Mizraim. Abbas. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the sheriff of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. I like to ask a favor instead of that now!
Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, I must go off to the full the clergyman's privilege of disregarding the Middlemarch discrimination of ranks, and feeling that Dover's use of asking for such fellows' reasons?
Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know what he called queen Victoria?
She said, Mary, write and give up that school. Shoot him to manage the whole journey and back in a low tone, What do you know, interposed Mr. Brooke.
Forget: a pickmeup.
What else were they invented for? Their blood is in me, more still!
I can watch it flow past from here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. At least, it seems the old man on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. A tide westering, moondrawn, in his hand.
I used to. Lord, is he going to say that the actual imperfections of the audible. His blued feet out of the diaphane in. Garth, laying the letters down. Ineluctable modality of the family estates at Freshitt and elsewhere, and the fair young man must be very stupid to be done. Toothless Kinch, the faunal noon. Where is she? You and I feel. The banknotes, blast them. But she's an old brick, old brick, old brick! Haroun al Raschid.
Garth, with answering fervor.
Glue em well. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the edge of the day. Then with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.
That man led me, a warren of weasel rats. For the old man did turn to him. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. But you were someone else. Caleb volunteered so long a speech, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. He coasted them, sure. Look here, then think distance, near, a stride at a calf's gallop.
Let him in. The grandest number, Stephen, you should allow for a chair. He threw it. Lawyer? He threw it. Mouth to her sewing, and she pressed it away as quietly as the vision of St. A hater of his green grave, his eyeballs stars. Pan's hour, the banging door of the carriage. Listen. He used to call forth the same sort of man.
Pull. Spoils slung at her again, finely shaded, with his pocket-book open on his comminated head see him. A very short space of time through very short times of space. My teeth are very bad. At the lacefringe of the apples on the parents. Better buy one. In sleep the wet street. Welcome as the deliverer of morning sermons, which the funeral could be well seen was in the library counter. Who watches me here? Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on some small plump brownish person of firm but quiet carriage, who laughed much at home with us, I wonder, with answering fervor. Then he was her master. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the slow creation of long interchanging influences: and ever shall be ready to take slips from the crested tide, that it was to be simply grave and not rutted.
As I am lonely here. I have never expressed herself unbecomingly, and that is the key in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can see.
Cadwallader and leaning forward over her head, and after politely welcoming Mrs. He slunk back in a hurry. No, I wonder.
Couch a hogshead with me? Said Celia.
Hauled stark over the brief letter, and that he is going too. It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speech, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the gone.
Hray! Respect his liberty. Tell him it doesn't signify a farthing, said Sir James, looking over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones.
Respect his liberty. At one, he said, gravely—Do find a fitter word than nasty, my dimber wapping dell! Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. A shut door of a dog when you're backing out of reach in that light. I would want to. Their dog ambled about a soul that is the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. I spoke to no-one saw: tell no-one saw: tell no-one. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then said, with that money like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Et erant valde bona. For whom? A woman and a visit from him was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone, prompted as usual by peculiar reasons. I meant, see now! At one, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Old Father Ocean. For whom?
Rhythm begins, you should allow for a pretty picture in the least make clear to himself? On the top of the day. What about what? We don't want any of the dome they wait, their mouths yellowed with the tufted grass and the one key erect on the ear. Yes, evening will find itself.
Hello! What reason could the miserable creature have for hating a man when he's seen into the library; but he did not make clear to herself the reasons for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his knees a sturdy forearm. Now, you mongrel!
For the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the library; but I will not be open with me then in the quaking soil.
O, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Where is she? Hauled stark over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Said Mr. Brooke, he said, in her courts, she added, The more fools they.
Then he laughed at himself for being likely to be fixed that Fred is to go and fetch the lawyer? Come. Why not endless till the farthest star? And Alfred must go and fetch the lawyer? Sit tight. Unheeded he kept at a time. By them, Stephen, sir; and perhaps for a little news, my dear? Pico della Mirandola like.
This. The Vicar did not lie in finding phrases, though he was written to, they sigh.
She trusts me, won't you? Beauty is not my nephew. I can never know what I meant, see now! His arm: Cranly's arm. Forget: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Mary! Et erant valde bona. This distinction conferred on the ear. With him together down … I could to hinder a man. Schluss. Go easy. You and I dare say Dodo likes it: they do. In the churchyard; the sooner you go somewhere else the back-doors of the south wall. Am I going to attack me? I can see, I have passed the way go easy with that money? Garth would be disposed at the top of the opening door, here is Mr. Brooke of Tipton to ascertain whether Mr. Garth, pausing from her work, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her husband, who looks about her, somehow, and I set out by liking the end very much as if she had kept on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a molten pewter surf. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men themselves inclusive. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. He laps. Gold light on sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Do you see, the froggreen wormwood, her lips.
From the liberties, out for the Goddamned idiot!
I cannot do that. These irregularities of judgment, I should like it very much as if it is a certain point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the silted sand. Human shells. I am not. Et vidit Deus. O, O Sion. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and Mary was just now at home. Licentious men. Did I not going into his usual cough; yet she desired not to see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and she went near him the irritation might be the longest day. Whereupon followed the second shrug. A very nice young fellow to rise. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Who's behind me? Did, faith. No, they were as likely to be surprised. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the crested tide, that rusty boot. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her husband's dislike to his son's adopting some other line of life. I wonder, with awakened curiosity, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? Darkly they are weary; and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.
Hollandais? O yes, W. Who to clear it? Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? In long lassoes from the wet sign calls her hour, the rum tum tiddledy tum.
Get down, baldpoll!
I say, it seems the old hag with the dents jaunes. All or not at all. Encore deux minutes. Aha. If I were suddenly naked here as I tell you. And at the sound of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.
All'erta! They take me for a chair.
About her windraw face hair trailed. Non fromage.
That's why she won't.
It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speech, my obelisk valise, porter threepence, across the sweep of sand. One moment. Faces of Paris. Well: slainte! What about what? But he must come up. Dog of my 'secret meddling,and my eyes.
Ah, poor dogsbody! Beauty is not fit for a man's words when he used this phrase—The soul of man, propped up on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. —Il croit? No. You delude me with a grief and kickshaws, a warren of weasel rats.
Sit down or by the sun's flaming sword, to sit down on his head preaching to him, mother, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will go anywhere with you, you know. —Here is a gate, if only of an electric battery, it is often necessary to change my mind, and watches its own powers with interest.
The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in a past life. Walter welcomes me. With woman steps she followed: the nacheinander. —C'est le pigeon, Joseph.
Clouding over. He has nowhere to put it up, stogged to its waist, in the other devil's name? Doesn't see me. There was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I came to look after Casaubon—to see at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on having persons bid to it if you would be the effect on Fred, said his wife. They are coming, waves. Broken hoops on the belts of thicker life below.
O, that's all only all right. I dislove. Really, that I know the voice. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. Mary was not afraid. In sleep the wet street.
Sir James, do you think they were as likely to be buried by a beneficed clergyman. Before him the irritation might be put out of the wretched handloom weavers in Tipton and Freshitt was the rule, said. De boys up in de hayloft. They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and charm is a difficult matter to get poor Pat a job one time.
Yes, used to the footpace descende! In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Take all, keep all. He halted. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had passed them to the sun he bent, ending. He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all the young uns? In. Where is poor dear Arius to try and reconcile Vincy to his activity on behalf of Fred to repeat my flippant speeches to Mr. Farebrother. Paris; boul' Mich', I will. There he is not easy to keep people against their will. The funeral was ended now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men.
It was certainly not her plainness that attracted them and then continued: I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, eh? Mon fils, soldier of France. Forget: a deep subtle sort of man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the topmost paper—Last Will and Testament—big printed. I can see. Come. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Who's behind me? Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Try and mould it yourself: you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. I would want to. Et vidit Deus. Mary, more still! Go easy. Books you were going to burn one of the south wall. The simple pleasures of the poor.
What she?
Stephen, you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. High water at Dublin bar. My tablets. Did I not take it in the black draperies shivering in the box, and threw it. I shall wait. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own expense, said Caleb, looking at her again, finely shaded, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. They take me for a little in the Hannigan famileye. What else were they invented for? The Ship, half twelve. Making his day's stations, the banging door of the Howth tram alone crying to the beginning of the letter. Belluomo rises from the crested tide, figures, two. The letter ran in this burning scene. They all think us beneath them. When I put my face into it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and he had done what he knew, and it's my belief that he had not snapped, and was thus exalted to an equal sky with the epochs of our neighbors, unless they are like a particular mixture or group at some distance from the suck and turned back by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the box, and how they take things. That's why she won't. Thunderstorm.
Touch me.
I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Basta! Will this be enough to do that. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. A jet of coffee steam from the suck and turned back to the Blessed Virgin that you have seen me do it again. Dringadring! White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. —Sit down or by the fire and thrown a shawl over her head. The drone of his wife's lover's wife, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. You have some. Take all, keep all. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Really, that could ever be done well, if not a door.
I am very glad to hear that you can put the key. Limits of the dome they wait, their lusts my waves.
I've thought of that. I mustn't forget his letter; and Mary was not afraid. And these, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant in a corner was whispering a dialogue with her hands in her hand gentle, the faunal noon. But he adds: in bodies. Five, six: the tanyard smells. Like me, without me. She did not say any more, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. I cannot touch your iron chest, and how they take things. The soul of man, who rubs male nakedness in the wind seemed to mirror that sense of loneliness which was not so intelligible to her seat by the edge of the tower waits. Disguises, clutched at, gone, Alfred will be impossible to endure life with you, Mary, well used to. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Flutier. His hat down on his padded knees. He takes me, they are weary; and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult journey for this purpose from the burnished caldron. Know that old lay? For whom? Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. Buss her, but seeing that her husband enter and seat himself a little joyous laugh as he bent, ending. He slunk back in four days. Clearly, said Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Take the key, looked straight at her back. Galleys of the moon, his fists bigdrumming on his broadtoed boots, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. Must be two of em. Wait. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. They made a pretty little bit of land in the wind seemed to mirror that sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when they're sorry, said. We don't want any of the gone.
But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Paper. Green eyes, all fixed on the daisies. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch me. They serpented towards his feet beginning to sink slowly in new sockets. What about that, invincible doctor. Endless, would it be mine, his three taverns, the superman. Dog of my enemy. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Sell your soul for that, eh? Now you can put the offer of the diaphane in. Human shells. —A most uncommonly cramping thing, though, a silent ship. Sir Lout's toys. —Though no man ought to apologize. He threw it with a little news, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Hunger toothache. A drowning man.
He laps. —A sort of surprised expression, she saw his face over a well-lit drawing-room and whist. Turn back. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. It's three o'clock he said.
More tell me, they sigh.
One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Making his day's stations, the banging door of a pale brown, taking on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant in a deep subtle sort of frog-face—do you remember it?
That seems to me a long while and we shall make something of my documents. No-one. The sun is there, the superman. Wild sea money. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Lascivious people. Dringdring! Paradise of pretenders then and now.
Ought I go to a certain point, live dog, grew into sight running across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Down, up, I didn't. All days make their end. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, flat I see Vincy, the longlashed eyes. Nor in the bath at Upsala.
So in the moon, his grandmother. That one. As the Vicar. Everything seems too happy for me to decide on? You told the Clongowes gentry you had an opinion. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs.
Lascivious people. Darkness is in our chippendale chair. Thunderstorm. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the orchard with Letty, went round it, and the subdued light. Coloured on a flat: yes, said the Vicar walked to Lowick in order that the old man's testiness whenever he demanded her attentions. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Sad too. Then from the bed. What do I want with the lawyer? Feefawfum. It makes me very happy, Mr. Farebrother. More tell me, her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. My Latin quarter hat. I, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. You will see if I can watch it flow past from here. It makes me feel rather empty: I have been mistaken, and it might be altogether pleasant. Let me give you some cordial, she said, Tous les messieurs. Open hallway. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. The lad is of a lowskimming gull. Oomb, allwombing tomb. The rotation of crops. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is he going? I can see. I used to call it his postprandial. Know that old man. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her mouth's kiss. His tuneful whistle sounds again, trying to be simply grave and not rutted. By them, sure. To medicine. Spoils slung at her.
For the rest let look who will.
For the rest—they come to a table of rock, carefully. Where? The drone of his wife's lover's wife, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. Making his day's stations, the slow creation of long interchanging influences: and no eye can see. I … With him together down … I could to hinder a man wanting to get, in which she narrated to her moomb. Your money would have been of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. My two feet in his pocket-book open on his holiday tour. Doesn't see me. Will and Testament—big printed. O, that's right. High water at Dublin bar. And no more turn aside and brood. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the steeds of Mananaan. Did, faith. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me. My handkerchief. One moment. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Non fromage. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Something he buried there, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, to the west, trekking to evening lands.
Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. For the old hag with the fat of kidneys of wheat. Human shells. Spurned lover. Cadwallader—also according to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the burnished caldron.
Diaphane, adiaphane. At one, he scanned the shore south, his mane foaming in the town. I'm going to Quallingham.
Già. Ineluctable modality of the county and other dignities vaguely regarded as necessary to the opening of his shovel hat: veil of the Howth tram alone crying to the devil in that sanctuary business, Susan? Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which was due to the bell and rang it energetically. Isle of saints. There were pall-bearers on horseback and look over the hillock of his shovel hat: veil of space. His hat down on his path. When I put my face. Hollandais? Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand. I shall carry the other hand, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Dog of my iron chest, and it might be the longest day. The Baronet added in very obliging words that he could inflict by the fire, saw a good young imbecile. If you do what he did, but W is wonderful. For the rest went on you: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, carefully. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. Hollandais?
I am here to beach, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a boat, sunk in sand. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a time. Got up as a young bride, man, said Mary, quickly! One who can write speeches. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Call Fred Vincy, for her husband's wrath. Omnis caro ad te veniet. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their lusts my waves. Non fromage. Let Stephen in. Signatures of all deaths known to all men? On the night of the sky fell on the ear. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Bride Street. Behold the handmaid of the alphabet books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. Justice. Perhaps there is hardly anything honest that his uncle had left written directions about everything and meant to have a red nose. Has all vanished since? Shake hands. —Call me Richie. Pooh! Has all vanished since? Most licentious custom. Belluomo rises from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Naked woman shining in her courts, she wasted no time to resume the agency of the railway would enable him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I say, it is more easily believed in by those who are living and those who come after will be gone soon, now they are there? I told you! His arm: Cranly's arm. Non fromage. Shake a shake. Noon slumbers.
A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. —A dislike painfully impressed on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! Flat I see you. His hat down on, sir; and perhaps for a chair, with upstiffed omophorion, with disgust. You're your father's son. I am quiet here alone. Having put some wood on the quilt before him. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. Flutier. Old hag with the pus of flan breton. Non fromage. Cadwallader. —The higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts.
You delude me with a fox-hunter's disgust. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. The fact is, poor dogsbody!
Tides, myriadislanded, within her, which, aloof as it were, snatches of diction which he was really expecting to set off soon. He bent over far to a parson who had a grudge against you for murder somewhere. Et vidit Deus. In long lassoes from the dreaded wretchedness, for which the postman had been a vain boast in him, he is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, being in his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. Susan! He lay back at full stretch over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Come.
Womb of sin. Said Mrs. Everything is symbolical, you know. Euge! I shall be ready to think of her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to study before term. Where is he going to do with men of your profession, and his strolling mort. As I am quite obliged to Mrs. Il croit? The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. —Look here, missy. Signatures of all as a young thing's. At the lacefringe of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. In writing the programme for his nap, sabbath sleep.
They serpented towards his feet sinking again slowly in the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy. Said Caleb. The dream-like association of something? It makes me very happy, Mr. Casaubon looked at her began to work; but it goes through you, if you disliked children.
Old Deasy's letter. O, O. Hray! Dan Occam thought of his chair from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.
Pan's hour, the steeds of Mananaan.
Won't you come to see this odd funeral, and you'll not tell Fred. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Said, with a melancholy look, you see anything of your secret committee, said Mary. Let him in now, eh? Lydgate flung himself into a pock his hat, but Mrs.
They are coming, waves and waves. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.
After he woke me last night same dream or was it? As I am lonely here. Alo! Soft soft soft hand. You will see if I can do nothing of the bitterest things you have your own relations, sir. Houses of decay, mine, form of forms. The soul of man, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. A jet of coffee steam from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward. Spoils slung at her began to beat more quickly. Green eyes, mincing as they came towards the smaller errors of men. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that, you will see a face like hers in the library counter. Down, up, stogged to its waist, in her well-priced quality.
I would want to. They all think us beneath them. Come. Who's behind me? Of what in the bed. Of Ireland, the dog. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. Lent it to make a claim on such feeling. If you can afford the loss he caused you. More tell me, like Mrs.
Now where the matron, though he was absent. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first time that Lydgate had been reserved for him, they are weary; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her nature, that could ever be done well, if he gives up being a parson. A jet of coffee steam from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. She thought you wanted for other purposes.
When he should think of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge.
Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Shells. Dan Occam thought of his legs, nebeneinander. Here. Mouth to her mother would be near, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. His arm: Cranly's arm. I was too, made not begotten. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It will be the longest day.
Mary.
So far he will stay with me then in the army.
In fact there was a little cut myself.
In spite of warnings and prescriptions, and here is a little way in taking to medicine. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know how he died, and it's my belief that he was aware of them coloured. No-one. He now will leave me. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load.
A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat.
Euge! Easy now. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. That's why she won't. Schluss. Diaphane, adiaphane.
#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce#1922#automatically generated text#Patrick Mooney#Proteus#George Eliot#Victorian novels#British novelists#Bildungsromaener#didactic literature#Marian Evans#19th century#Middlemarch (novel)
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