#I’m thinking either dressing up as Moon or The Mangle | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1zashreena1 · 4 years

Text

No Shame 8

Pairing: M/F, OC/Priest!Diego (OR NOT) Jimenez [Starz Power] AU IMAGINE

Rating: LITERAL FILTH

Warnings: feelings-dick-feelings sandwich, Too Cute, MOAR BABIES, the babies are in danger, sand gets everywhere, power imbalance, astronomical blasphemy, Diego’s pornographic mouth, old timey woman related bullshit, consent issues, set some time before 1900 in what will be present day Mexico.

Summary: Remember the Zorro TV shows? And the movie? And also Beauty and the Beast? It’s like that but with Diego dick.

A/N: I guess I’m just gonna keep writing until it stops?? I am an atheist so please keep that in mind as I unintentionally mangle Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular. This was prompted by an ask, you know who you are >.>

Tag a friend! @girlpornparadise @nicke0115 @fleurfatale89 @mandoplease @heresathreebee @chensingmachinee @kid-from-new-zealand @xxidontwikeitxx @demoncatstone @allalngthewtchtower @dirtynerdy98 @lettherebrelight

Everything is dark again. You blink repeatedly before realizing it is not you, the sun has already set. Moonlight is shimmering on the patio tiles in the little courtyard, Did he leave the doors open?

Diego is not in the bed, but the bedroom door is open. You slide off the side of the bed and wince, your poor little parts are sore. Between the paddle, his beard, and the pounding, you are limping ever so slightly. As you round into the bathroom you encounter Diego standing at the sink, drying his hands.

Oddly enough, he is wearing all black.

"Hello." You whisper softly, unsure if you are interrupting. The smile he turns on you is both reassuring and decimating. No one needs to look so good, with those damn dimples.

"There you are. I have clothing for you," Diego indicates a small stack on the countertop, "Meet me in the kitchen after you dress. We are going on an adventure." His voice is excited, he is fairly quivering with anticipation. He steps forward to cup your chin in those beautiful hands, kisses your forehead, and then squeezes past you to disappear down the hall.

What just happened?

What is about to happen?

You wash your face and braid your hair before dressing, the clothing is a simple ensemble of a shirt and flowing… pants? They resemble a split skirt except the material is very similar to the shirt; loose and airy, and the "split" goes high up like pants. It is ridiculously comfortable and you are actually a bit angry that something like this existed and you did not know of it. Your short boots are waiting for you in the middle of the bedroom floor. Message received, Diego, you chuckle as you don them.

Diego is in the kitchen eating without you.

"Hey! I want food." You pout immaturely. Diego only smiles and hands over his half full plate. You realize that he was planning on sharing it with you to begin with and feel a bit self-conscious. Oh, it does not stop you from eating, of course, but you do catch brown eyes watching you amusedly.

Diego leads you to the stables where Dante is already saddled and waiting. To his side is the Friesian mare who birthed Cirrus, also saddled and waiting for you. Delilah is pleased to see you, she huffs in your face and nickers gently. Dante, ever so much like his master, demands some of your attention before you are permitted to mount. You kiss his velvety muzzle, then let Diego boost you up.

Delilah is actually a bit larger than Dante, you are of an even height with Diego once both seated. Although he does tend to treat you as an equal, it is nice to not have to look up at him for once.

"Where are we going?" The question has to be called after him because Diego is leading you away. It does not require much effort on your part, horses naturally want to keep together. You trust Delilah's sure footing in the darkness.

Diego turns back and smiles, you can see his teeth glittering in the full moonlight, to tell you, "The ocean, little girl."

Huh?

"In the middle of the night?" Confusion colors your voice. You wonder what the purpose of this little expedition is. Delilah follows Dante when the path narrows through the forest, but she sidles up alongside every time the road is wide enough.

"This is a very particular night during a particular time. I think you will enjoy it very much." Diego is so very proud, he reminds you of a child that simply KNOWS you are going to LOVE their gift.

You pass through some archways of thick foliage, then a hall like structure carved through a cliffside, to pop out onto a beach. It is stunning.

The sand is wide and dark, both outer ends of the beach are buttressed by cliffside, but dense rainforest forms the backdrop for most of this cove. The waves crash in the distance, there is much wet sand visible where the tide has gone out. The moonlight twinkles like gemstones on the water and the air is filled with the sounds of wildlife.

You do not realize you are crying until the burning tears roll down your cheeks. Never before have you seen anything like this. Its is profoundly large and awe inspiring, you feel very tiny and overwhelmed. Diego circles back to check on you.

"Are you unhappy?" He is watching you intently, trying to judge your mood.

"It is beautiful, Diego." You turn to him in a daze. Your grateful whisper is bursting with emotion, "Thank you."

He smiles broadly and looks so...soft. one large hand comes up in offering, you take it without thinking. Dante sidesteps closer until all four of you are pressed together. Diego indicates an unremarkable patch of sand in the distance with a soft, "Watch."

Nothing happens for a long few minutes until suddenly the sand is moving. You lean forward and squint, trying to comprehend what you are seeing. Slowly but surely, tiny things are emerging from the ground and heading out to sea. They look like some kind of sea creatures?

"What is that?" You breathe.

"Baby sea turtles. They hatch and run directly for the safety of the water. I come down here on the nights of the full moon during this season." Diego explains without a hint of condescension. When you look to him you notice that he is watching the sky.

"Why?" It is clear that he has a purpose in doing this.

"The full moon shows the babies easily, it draws the sea birds. I can chase them away so the little ones have a better chance."

This man is never what he seems.

You watch him in wonder, then look down to your small hand in his large one. It takes a moment for your epiphany to sink in, but when it does…

This is what I want.

I want Diego.

Tugging on his hand, you bring his attention back to you. Diego's eyes are black in the darkness, his face open and interested in whatever you are about to do. You take in the broad shoulders, his strong neck and wide chest, every perfectly blessed inch of him. It is easy to see his strength, but even easier for you to see is his gentle softness. The easy way he handles horses, the warm care for these itty bitty wild creatures that give nothing back to him. His eagerness to please you, to provide for you, is like nothing you have ever known.

You are kissing before you can think to lean into him. Soft lips, scratchy beard, and hot tongue become the focus of your world. Everything is a blur, you are moving, being lifted and carried, it does not matter because the kissing never stops. Your feet are on the ground, then your butt, Diego is on top, you pull and tug on his clothing, and then it is nothing but his skin on yours. Every inch you can reach, can kiss, receives special treatment. He has a breast in his mouth and a hand between your legs, it is not enough. It will never be enough.

Reaching down between your bodies to stroke his length vibrates a groan into the nipple to which he is attached. It feels heavenly but you know it could be sublime if he would just take you already. He is hard and leaking, you swipe up yourself and spread the wetness over his erection to entice him. When that fails you admit total defeat and simply beg, "Please, please Diego. Need you."

"Yes, little girl." Diego mutters as he positions himself over you, rubbing the head through your folds as he hisses in pleasure. Your writhing is either very tempting or highly unhelpful because he laces his fingers with yours and holds you down to the sand.

"Look at me." He growls, teeth clenched and brow furrowed. You drown in his gaze, deeper than the ocean beyond. Diego swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, "Be mine, little girl. Say yes to me right now, let me have you, let me keep you."

His need washes over you, stronger than any tide, and you want nothing more than to be swept away. Carried off to never return to the life you once knew. It is terrible and exhilarating and you want it, oh, do you want it.

"Yes. Yes!" Nodding, you cry as he fills you entirely. It feels as though your whole body has been hollowed only for Diego to complete you. He buries his face in your neck and worries the sensitive skin with his teeth. You wrap your legs around his hips and urge him faster. Everything outside of the two of you is blurry nonsense, so far beneath your concern.

"Little girl, you are mine. Will fill you, please you, keep you. Mine, mine, come for Father." That rough voice is breathy with emotion, his demanding pleas cannot be ignored when he makes you feel so very good. Your fingers curl into his broad shoulders, you can feel every sinful inch of him throbbing inside you, Diego kisses up your neck as you tighten around him. So close, please, please, yes.

"That is it. Give yourself to me. Be mine, my good little girl, Zera." He pants into your ear. Your spine bows as you crest, rippling down around him in ecstatic spasms. The resistance of his thick heat buried deep only heightens your pleasure. You assume you are making noise, but you do not care. Diego whines softly as he follows you, grinding deep.

The collapse of his big body on top of you is more comforting than stifling. Both of you lie there, chests heaving, until something touches your foot. The pitch of your shriek startles everyone on the beach. Diego rolls to his back and carries you with him, cradled into his lap for safety. The horses are over by the treeline sneaking illicit snacks. You whip around to find the source of your terror and-

It is a tiny little turtle.

There is a nest opening just past where your feet were and dozens of the babies are tunneling out, making their way to the water.

"Oh." You utter lamely.

Diego flops to his back and laughs until he cries, there are snorts, too, just for good measure. You want to be irritated that he is laughing at you but it is not possible. Rather, you plop your torso across his and join him. The little ones pay no mind to the insane humans.

Diego brushes the sand off of your back and you wince, the scratches from earlier in the week are still tender. A cascade of sand flows across his chest when you turn your head and your hair shakes. You eye the water intently.

"What are the currents like? Or the sand beyond the waterline?" The questions take Diego by surprise.

"Do you truly mean to swim in the ocean? Right now?" He gawks at you. Really, is that scoff necessary?

"... yes? I can swim. And rather well at that. I have been in the ocean before, too." You lift your chin in defiance.

"There is a steep drop off out further, but if you stick to waist height or so it should be fine. The sand is the same, currents are fine until the drop." Diego answers dazedly as you stand in front of him, nude in the moonlight. Despite having spent inside you mere minutes ago, he looks ravenous again.

"Are you coming?" Your taunt is delivered over your shoulder as you stroll away, his dark eyes are trained on your rump. He really does like it.

The water is a bit more chilly than you expected, it hardens your nipples with a shiver. A heart attack is provided to you free of charge when you turn back. You cannot stop the whimper, That man should come with a warning.

Diego stalking to you, emblazoned in ethereal moonlight, completely and blessedly nude, needs to be the last thing you see before you die. Maybe Mother was right and there is a God.

You manage to focus long enough to rinse off most of the sand, your hair is now ten pounds heavier with seawater. Diego, of course, completes the entire activity with devastating grace and no small show of gleaming muscles. Your entire train of thought has narrowed down to 'hrrrrrrrr' when something brushes your leg in the waist deep water. When you look down you see the triangular tip of a fin and your brain locks up.

"We have to get out. Now!" You hiss as the long shadow under the water circles further away.

"What? What is wrong?" Diego’s confusion turns into determination to protect you the instant he sees your face. All you can do is point to the shadow with a trembling hand. Diego grabs your waist and pushes, "Go. Quickly but controlled. Try not to splash."

You do as he says, trusting him at your back. The water has lowered to your knees when you hear a splash and turn just in time to watch Diego punch a shark.

You reach out and snatch his other wrist to yank him out of the water with you. In a mostly controlled fall you both collapse to the sand above the waterline. Diego is watching the water, you are watching him.

"Are you hurt?" The breathless anxiety of your question is loud in the night. Diego shakes his head but continues glaring at the ocean. You cannot see anything out there, so you ask, "What is it?"

Diego’s jaw grinds before he answers you, "It is eating the babies." And he cannot do anything about it. The anguished frustration in his voice breaks your heart. You slide next to him and wrap your arms around his larger one. Tentatively, your fingers stroke over his palm, Diego laces his fingers through yours with no hesitation.

"You cannot protect all the babies. And the shark still needs to eat. I am sorry." Unsure if that is helpful or not, you still have to try. He sighs deeply and nods, resigned to the morbid knowledge.

"I know. And I know it is the way of things. But they are babies!" He sputters indignantly.

Hysterical giggles are bubbling up in your chest, you struggle to keep it down. You are going to lose this battle and you know it. Diego looks down at you when an aborted snort escapes, his questioning brow breaks you.

"YOU PUNCHED A SHARK!" You shriek madly and dissolve. It is too much, you cannot process this, you are going to vomit from laughter. Folding in half, you howl into your own stomach and cry. Diego is chuckling beside you, not that you can hear it over yourself, but his shoulders are shaking with it. He has to drag you to the horses where you both dress, him quickly and efficiently, you in mangled spurts of action and chortles.

The stablehands are waiting for your return, they take the horses and Diego ushers you inside. Your body melts into the bed and you are fast asleep before you can laugh yourself silly again.

----------------

Something large and heavy is on your chest. It is very bright and you do not like it. Squinting downward, you see a rowdy mass of brown hair, Oh yes, a Diego.

The large man is on top of you, his head pillowed on your bosom. Diego snuffles softly and burrows in deeper, tickling you with his scruff. One huge hand is next to your head, it is the left. You cannot help but remember last night.

Was that a proposal? Did I accidentally agree to get married again? It makes no sense, he is already receiving all the benefits of a union without the hassles.

The sheet is bunched up above his rear, with a few gentle tugs from your toes it is slowly revealed. You do rather enjoy looking at him. The sudden urge to put your mouth on him is suffocating. I wonder if I could move without waking him.

The answer is no, as the second you move more than a few inches Diego pops upright in startlement. You freeze and watch him carefully. After confirming that there is no threat he looks down to your chest, then up to your face. Amazing.

"Do you need up?" The rasping voice is even more hoarse first thing in the morning and it makes you tingle.

"No. I just wanted to touch you. And, er, maybe, other… things?" Your squirming only makes your chest jiggle and Diego is delighted with all of your responses. Those huge hands cup your breasts and you moan. Loudly.

"Oh yes, you must wake me every time you get these urges. I will help you absolve yourself of these sinful thoughts." Diego purrs, eyes closing with pleasure as he grinds his growing length against your crotch.

"Wait, I mean yes please, but, I, I had a thought. Something to try? Maybe?" You stutter through the request, rolling your hips with his movements.

"Yes, little girl. Tell me your idea. You have the best ideas." Diego is flattening your breasts, leaning down to lap over your nipples in lazy rounds. Your hands cover his and you moan as your legs come up.

"Well I want you to, to, um, to lick me. But! I also want to, to do, the same, to you." The squeaky confession is so humiliating that you cover your face briefly. Diego's warm chuckle is not as reassuring as it should be.

"And how do you propose to do both simultaneously, hmm? What devious method have you devised to achieve this level of filthy debauchery?" His rumble is much closer, when you peek out between your fingers he is in your face, licking his lips lasciviously. Your center clenches tight.

"What if you lay o-on your back and I-" you cannot believe this is coming out of your mouth, "I lay on top of you, but, but like yesterday? Facing away, you see."

Diego has stopped moving.

You peer over your fingers to look at him. The bearded jaw hangs open and those brown eyes are very round. I have gone too far. This is too much. I am truly a whore, depraved, prurient, disgusting, irredeemable--

"You. Are. Brilliant."

Diego is rushing to get off of you, throwing himself down on the bed, and dragging your body to him. This is… not the response you were expecting. Really, Zera? The man is the most perverted person you have ever encountered.

He tosses you onto his chest as you yelp and pulls your hips up to his face. You can feel his hot breath on your core and you quiver with anticipation. There is only one problem: you cannot reach his erection.

"I need to be closer, I cannot rea-eeeech!" You squawk as he licks you from top to bottom. Oh yes, there it is. Your hips follow him wantonly. Diego scoots upward, you get carried along, until he is propped against the headboard. This moves his head closer to you and thus you can move further down on him and, well, now your face is full of cock.

Resting your full weight on him earns you a sigh, but the strangled groan brought on by wrapping both hands around his length is even better. It is easier this way, he cannot see your awkward facial expressions, you feel freer to be more exuberant with your activities. The first lick you manage makes his hips jerk. The needy whine he emits fills you with power.

Diego palms your rear enthusiastically, much to your pleasure. It seems you really, really, like to be touched there. You moan around the head of his cock and Diego hisses, "Sí, little girl. Take it into your mouth, you like my cock?"

Pulling off with an absolutely disgusting slurp, you answer him slyly, "Almost as much as you like my buttocks."

Honestly, you should have expected the slap.

"Again!" You demand imperiously before diving back down onto his length.

"Oh, you bad girl. Do you need to be spanked while you suck my cock?" Diego coos conceitedly. Your nod and muffled 'mm-hmm' earns you several more slaps. Each one is harder than the last until he is pushing you down on his erection with every impact. Everything about this makes you writhe desperately. His leaking manhood tastes divine, the big hands on your cheeks perfectly overwhelming, and the feel of him panting into your most highly forbidden place; it is all so very good.

"Look at you," Diego breathes, "Dripping wet and slobbering on my cock. Beautiful." His hands hold you open, He must be able to see inside me, it is humiliating and enticing and very confusing. He goes on obliviously, "Such a pretty little thing, open and wet for Father. Let me see you squeeze--"

You are obeying without thought, clenching down hard and hoping he can see the rippling of your muscles. His pained moan confirms it is visible. Your answering moan makes his cock jump in your mouth.

"Yes, oh sí, good girl." Diego growls, his hips twitch and you dig your nails into his skin, the growl turns into a whine. Maybe I am not the only one who likes rougher handling…

Experimentally, you rake nails over his thighs. Diego parts his legs and pants into your center. You let your hands slide between and claw into the muscle, Diego jerks and moans. Feeling exceptionally bold today, you decide to lightly hit him on his inner thigh.

The slap echoes loudly, but his moan is louder yet.

Before you can raise your hand to repeat the action he is yanking you up a bit and attacking your core. He is licking and sucking as if starved, the avalanche of sensation renders you boneless. The hot, wet pressure is almost too much. Diego takes advantage of your limpness to thrust into your mouth.

It should be insulting for him to use you thusly. It arouses you beyond your understanding. You try a few different angles and positions before settling on one that allows him smooth motion but keeps him from going deep enough to choke you. His girth requires your jaw to be held widely open and every time he withdraws you get a taste of saltiness.

Diego is growling incessantly, the vibrations feel amazing but you are too overwhelmed to reach completion while this is happening. The sensory overload is maddening. He is leaking profusely, it will not be much longer for him. You pull off to usher him along, you are feeling very bold today indeed.

"I want to swallow it. Give me what I want, Father."

The big body under yours shakes as Diego grips your hips hard enough to bruise and takes your mouth as he has taken your womanhood. You hang on and struggle to breathe, his beard is rubbing your nub harshly. The erratic thrusts are chaotic, haphazard and hurried, Diego is frantic. You moan lowly and it pushes him over the edge.

One huge hand lands on your head, holding you down as his straining length pours down your throat. Your eyes water as you pant through your nose, trying to swallow without gagging. Diego's hips twitch violently as he sobs into your folds.

Finally, he collapses to the bed, his heaving chest bouncing you. The flow has tapered off, you pull back and wipe your mouth with a few soft coughs. Diego releases you deliberately, you can feel his hands shaking as they leave your body.

"That was not too much? Still acceptable?" You ask anxiously, ever afraid that you will go too far. The growing silence makes your eyes burn with unshed tears, I will always be too much.

"You? Little girl. Zera. Turn around." Diego rasps. You are embarrassed, but somehow powerless to disobey this man. Sliding off to the side and turning around, you keep your head down and your eyes turned away. He sits up somewhat and gestures for you to come to him. Trembling, you do as requested. His hands grip your ribcage and he lifts you over him, you assist unthinkingly by moving your legs out of the way. Now straddling his wide chest, you have nowhere to look but at him. Diego cups your face and sighs up at you with big brown eyes.

"You may be the most aberrantly and perfectly perverse woman I have ever met. There is no such thing as too far if that is where you are going. Now come up here and receive your reward for being a very good girl who swallows my cock." Diego waggles his eyebrows at you ridiculously and you cannot help but laugh.

"Fine, but what do you mean 'come up here' ?" You are already on top of him, what more could be required? Diego releases your face to grip your rump again. He uses the hold to drag you up, up until your knees go over his shoulders, his face disappears beneath your crotch, and there is no way to mistake his intention. OH.

The first lick bows your back, the second brings your clawing fingers to the headboard, and the third makes you keen brokenly. Your hips want to follow his tongue, Is that allowed? It must be. You roll over him and Diego moans happily. His hands cup your butt cheeks to urge you on with enthusiasm. Taking him at his word, or moan, you slowly ease into motion. It takes no time at all and his constant happy noises until you are riding his face as you would his manhood.

The feel of his tongue covering nearly all of you is glorious. You try different pressures, resting ever more of your weight on him until it is perfect. The fear of smothering him eases as Diego is making a never ending stream of pleased sounds. The vibrations make your eyes roll back, his tongue is soft and hot, the beard rubs you deliciously, and those damn hands are gripping you so tightly.

"I-- oh, this is. You, yes, yesss." Your mouth does not require your consent. "Please, please, yes, this feels so good." Diego moans as you whine. Your hips jerk ever faster, his tongue presses insistently on the focal point of your pleasure. It is deliriously good. He clutches and massages your rear, he has not forgotten that you like for it to receive attention. Those long fingers slip between to rub everything he can reach. It is your undoing.

"Oh, yes, yes! Ahhhh!" If you had any sanity left you would be mortified to hear yourself. Your whole body quivers, your stomach tightens, and you clench down on emptiness as you come apart. The rounds of contractions are strong, waves of pleasure deep.

Your forehead crashes to the wall as you go limp, but Diego is not finished. He continues with his tongue, but his fingers come forward under you to slip inside. The noise you make into the wall is barely human. That wicked tongue never pauses as he uses his fingers in lieu of his cock. Long, slow, deep strokes into you as he laps over your very happy bud in infinite licks. You shake through another peak, sobbing into your arms, letting him do whatever he wishes.

You flinch away as it eases, everything is sore, and he releases you with no struggle. He knows I am not going anywhere, you chuckle to yourself. You sink down next to him in a heap, still panting. Diego looks extraordinarily pleased. He opens his mouth and you swoop down before he can start talking.

His facial hair is wet, it is tangy and salty, similar but different to the taste of his seed. You like this, too. The kisses are languid, you are both still tired.

"Mmm. Sleep, little girl. We have an errand to complete later." Diego rumbles into your mouth, licking over your lips one last time as he settles your smaller body into his. You are too tired to fight.

"What doing?" You yawn into his ribs.

"Mm, town. Go into town." Diego murmurs as he pets you down. Despite your misgivings, Diego can soothe you into calm unconsciousness with ease. You trust this man and he clearly means to take care of you.

Just once, maybe I will let someone else handle things.

#damnit diego #don diego #maurice compte #starz power diego jimenez #diego imagine au 1 #zash writes #doesnt matter what universe he is still a sugar daddy #he likes babies ok????#sharks gonna shark

20 notes · View notes

who-gave-atlas-a-pencil · 5 years

Text

out of the deep waters

A/N: Feel free to shoot me any comments/questions you might have about stuff!!! I love interacting with people and I’m gonna be writing more so I’m trying to stretch my legs a bit with drabbles and such. Either way, enjoy the story!

Read on AO3 for notes.

Summary: Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

—---- The night he’s discorporated by a frightened Irish Catholic boy, the sky is black and wicked and churning with thick clouds that block out the stars. Of course, some of that might be Crowley’s fault, an unfortunate side-effect of his growing irritation with the omnipresent ache between his shoulderblades. It’s like that one stupid question about the chicken and the egg that humans find so fascinating, except this one goes more like ‘which comes first, the soul-sucking pain that storm fronts bring him or the storm fronts he brings because everything bloody hurts and he’s feeling vindictive?’

Not that it matters, really. What matters is that he’s forgotten his sunglasses and his snake eyes glow golden in the night without explanation. What matters is that a boy stands before him, wide-eyed and innocent and blocking his escape as he brandishes blessings and a cross with a shaking voice, stepping closer and closer, pushing Crowley toward the edge of the cliff and the waiting waters below.

What matters is, Crowley takes a step too far and the ground disappears beneath him. What matters is, he falls.

—–

If even a few hours later someone had asked him what he’d been doing on a boat beneath a cliff in Ireland in the dead of night, Aziraphale doesn’t think he would know the answer. All he knows is that he happens, by some miracle, to look up just in time to watch as a figure takes one step and then another and then plummets backwards off the cliff to the icy depths below.

Aziraphale gapes for a moment, too stunned to react. Then he drops the Dickens he’s been reading in favour of throwing out a hand, fingers spread wide in an attempt to slow the figure’s descent. With his other hand he fumbles for an oar and begins to row.

—–

It’s cold. Scratch that, it’s bloody freezing. Crowley hits the water with enough force to almost black out then and there, except that he doesn’t because he’s not that lucky. Instead, he’s wide awake as pins and needles jab into every inch of his body and force the air out of his lungs, replacing it with the cold clutch of the lake. The water burns in his eyes and his throat, thick and brackish as he starts to sink. He’s turned around by the impact, can’t tell which way is up, and the darkness hides away any hint of the moon but the fact is that he’s conscious and so he has to swim, has to try.

So he does. Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

——

The first thing that Aziraphale notices about the stranger he pulls out of the lake is that their hair is red, gloating in the water like a sopping wet flame. The second is that they are dressed in a manner utterly inappropriate for a late night swim in a half-frozen lake. The third thing he realises as he watches the figure sputter and wipe the water from a pair of brilliant gold eyes is that they aren’t really a stranger after all.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is too shocked to hide his surprise and so the word drips with it instead, much the same way Crowley is dripping on the bottom of the boat where the Dickens had been resting only moments before. Rather than responding, Crowley turns and retches over the side of the boat. The way he coughs reminds Aziraphale of plague victims, and he half-expects to see blood on Crowley’s lips when he finally, finally starts to breathe again.

Strands of vomit and salive hang from his mouth. Crowley spits over the side and wipes the remnants away with the back of a hand. Then he slumps against the side of the boat like an exhausted puppet and closes his eyes. “Hello angel,” he rasps. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, a bit dumbly. “What on Earth are you doing jumping off a cliff?”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise. “Wrong place, wrong time. Old habits die hard. You know.” Aziraphale’s just about to say that no, he doesn’t know, because Crowley’s making about as much sense as that whole manifest destiny business Americans got into a century back when he sees the demon shudder, pulling into himself and gripping his arms. His clothes are sopping wet and pasted to his skin, hugging the sharp angles of his body as he shivers and mutters something obscene.

Of course, Aziraphale thinks, mentally kicking himself. Snakes are cold-blooded. Crowley must be freezing. The thought’s barely crossed his mind when Crowley snaps his fingers and the water dissolves from what he’s wearing, leaving him visibly drier but still shivering, swearing under his breath.

Aziraphale flinches. It’s not the language that bothers him. It’s the look on Crowley’s face – pained and irritated and guarded to an almost entirely imperceptible degree. Aziraphale doesn’t quite recall the last time he’s looked like this, but he knows Crowley well enough to assume that the expression means he’s had a well and truly terrible night.

(On the other hand, he’s not entirely certain he has any right to make assumptions, not after London. He thinks of the Bentley peeling off into the bombed out night and swallows hard, pushing down the familiar and faint churn of guilt in his stomach.)

Where his hands have instinctively moved to take off his jacket and offer it to the figure shivering across from him, the fear of rejection makes them still, fingers fluttering like unhappy butterflies as Aziraphale lets them fall to his lap. Instead of offering anything, he clears his throat and attempts to sound authoritative. “If you don’t wish to answer my questions, then I insist you at least warm yourself up,” he says primly, and reaches for the oars again.

——

Evidently, Aziraphale’s idea of someplace warm is a tiny cottage not far from the lake shore where he says he’s staying, though Crowley can’t even begin to guess why he would be there, of all places. Not that he’s particularly trying, really. He’s too busy being cold and miserable and frankly a bit perplexed by the way the evening’s progressed to give too much thought to Aziraphale’s motivations. So long as he doesn’t end up on the receiving end of another attempted exorcism, this will be an improvement on the rest of the day.

He can only get away with silence for so long though. It’s one thing when they’re in a boat or walking or otherwise preoccupied, and quite another thing when they’re sitting still, mugs of tea in both their hands while the fire blazing in the hearth makes light dance across Aziraphale’s face, highlighting his poor attempts at studying Crowley subtly from across the room.

The angel clears his throat. “So. Are you around these parts for vacation or temptation?”

“Passing through,” Crowley says, and doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s hard, looking at Aziraphale without the sunglasses. After so many centuries, they’ve become a sort of safety net for him, a means of avoiding inconvenient encounters with crosses while also keeping him from revealing anything, from having to see his own damnation reflected back at him in the angel’s eyes.

He realises, perhaps belatedly, that this is the first time they’ve been in the same room since the whole debacle with the Germans in 1941. Back then, Crowley had driven Aziraphale home in a mostly awkward silence, tipped his hat in farewell at the door and disappeared into the Blitz without another word. He hadn’t known what to say then, and he still doesn’t know now. Fifteen years is practically a blink at their age, but in this moment it feels like millenia.

“So,” they both say, at the exact same time. Crowley gestures for Aziraphale to continue, making a face when they do that in sync too.

Aziraphale’s expression distorts into a delicate sort of embarrassment. “We seem to be rather on the same weight lane, I’m afraid,” he says, somewhat sheepish as Crowley clamps his jaw shut. “Would you like to speak first?”

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment and rests his head against the back of chair. Satan, give me strength. “It’s ‘same wavelength’, angel,” he mutters. “Honestly.” A wave of fondness surges in his chest at the mangled idiom, but he shoves it down before it can surface. “In any case, last I’d heard we have nothing in common. I’m fallen, remember?” Nearly a century has passed since St. James, and Crowley knows it’s a low blow to bring it up in the first place but he still can’t quite stop himself, can’t keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice.

Aziraphale flinches, though to his credit he makes no effort to excuse himself. Instead, he looks at his hands and studies them guiltily. “That was a rather callous thing for me to say, wasn’t it? It’s not as if you would have forgotten or… I don’t know, become an aardvark.” There is a nervous edge to the way the corners of his mouth quirk up with a quiver slight as a ladybug’s wings. When Crowley looks at him, their eyes meet only for a moment before Aziraphale blinks and returns to studying his hands with a truly inordinate degree of dedication. “I suppose I should, ah. Amend that statement. Apologise, perhaps.”

All at once, the anger that’s been boiling in Crowley’s veins all night falls away to a low, pathetic simmer. “Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago, and it’s not like you’re wrong.” Just that you’re the last person I expected to remind me, he adds mentally, though he’d never say it aloud. Probably for the best, anyway, leaving the conversation where it is. He’s not the type to grant anyone absolution.

The silence stretches between them, languid and threatening, a snake sizing them up and preparing to swallow them whole. There is an elephant in the room almost ninety years in the making and they both refuse to shoot it, even if they both know that ignoring it won’t make it go away.

Crowley breaks first. “So. Dickens in the dark. New hobby of yours?”

“Fortuitous accident, really. I was reading and rather lost track of time, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale smiles, a bit shyly. “Quite lucky in hindsight, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” Crowley echoes, with the distinct sensation that he’s swallowing his own tongue. “Will heaven be upset that you…?” He waves a hand in vague indication to his very obviously not-drowned self and their current situation. “You know.”

“I should think not,” Aziraphale says, his smile just a bit too quick. “It’s not as if they would have any reason to suspect I’d specifically saved you. I didn’t expect it myself, after all.” He quiets, his smile dimming somewhat as his eyes settle once more on Crowley’s face, searching. “Why were you plummeting off a cliff, exactly? If I may ask.”

Crowley shrugs. “New hobby I thought I’d try. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Too late, he remembers Aziraphale’s accusation of the holy water suicide pill and he realises what he sounds like, wincing. “Not like a staggeringly good idea. I’ve definitely had better ones this century. Can’t all be winners.”

“I would hardly consider atomic bombs to be winners.”

“You don’t actually think I made those, do you?” Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face and catches a flash of guilt and suddenly the annoyance is back in full force. “You know, you could actually give me some credit now and then.”

“Well, how am I to know? You take credit for everything. It’s been fifteen years. People talk.” Aziraphale huffs, adjusting his suit jacket impatiently. “You can’t blame me for logical assumptions.”

“Logical assumptions? Of course.” Crowley glares, his muscles tensing as he bites down on a bitter laugh in favour of an even more bitter smile. “Why would you ever assume anything but the worst out of me?” Outside the window, rain has started to pour down and Crowley’s only just started to get warm but he stands anyway. A snappy retort hangs off the tip of his tongue, thanks loads for the rescue, see you in a century when you’ve finished cleaning your hands of me, and he opens his mouth to say just that.

Then Aziraphale stops him. “Crowley, wait,” he says, rising to his feet as well. “Please. I didn’t mean to insinuate – I’m sorry.” The apology stutters off his tongue like it’s tripping and Crowley looks at Aziraphale and curses himself for it a moment later. The expression on the angel’s face is the most horribly, frustratingly genuine thing Crowley’s ever seen. That’s the trouble with Aziraphale. It always has been. The only thing that’s ever been able to rival the scope of his brilliance and capacity for kindness is his immense talent for putting his foot in his mouth. In the worst, most horrible way, Crowley has to admit he can relate.

He sits back down, settles himself on the chair again. After nearly a minute of awkward silence, Aziraphale clears his throat, delicate, and tries again. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He pauses a moment as if contemplating his next words very carefully. “What I meant to say is – well, you really are terribly clever, Crowley. I simply don’t understand why you didn’t use your wings.”

In the silence that follows, the rain lashes the window with a sudden, angry force. A bolt of lightning splits the night and Crowley doesn’t see it flash, doesn’t hear the thunder. For a single, horrible moment, he is not there anymore. He is in a different cramped space, and there are several people on each arm holding him down and a gag in his mouth that tastes like rot and mold and ash, and there is a horrible wet sensation and a pain not entirely unlike the lightning, flashing white and sharp against his eyelids as he screams and-

“Crowley?” He blinks, and Aziraphale is staring at him quizzically.

Shit. Perhaps a bit too obviously, he shakes himself free of the memory and smiles, quick and sharp. “Oh, you know,” he says smoothly, “I just don’t think it occurred to me. I mean, I was a little surprised at the whole exorcism bit, mostly. Can you believe people still do that? Been centuries since the last one. A century, I suppose. Century and a half? Right, that reminds me – you wouldn’t have a spare pair of glasses around that I could borrow? I’d like to avoid redoing all this.”

He’s rambling. More importantly, he’s deflecting, and he’s doing it far less smoothly than he usually does and far less subtly than he would like to. He sees Aziraphale frown and feels his fingers twitch nervously at his side. “I’m afraid I haven’t much need for sunglasses,” the angel says, studying him.

Feeling pinned, Crowley resists the urge to squirm, screwing his face up with disappointment. “Right. Too bad then.” He stretches out, his arms bending at night quite natural angles, then stands again, his heart suddenly racing. He needs to leave now, before the questions start. Before the problems begin. “I ought to get going. Hate to get between you and your Dickens.” He says it with the exact sort of mocking tone that he knows drives Aziraphale up the wall, hoping to get a rise out of him, to manipulate him into agreeance.

Instead, Aziraphale sputters indignantly. “Get in the way of-? Crowley, you nearly drowned! And that lake was –it was practically freezing. There is absolutely no way that you’ve fully warmed yourself.”

“Part snake, remember? I adjust fast.” The lie rolls easily off his tongue, and Crowley shoots off a quicksilver grin, sticking his hands in his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking like an addict’s. He starts to walk, ready to leave with or without Aziraphale’s blessing.

Then there’s a hand on his wrist, holding him in place. Crowley looks down, and Aziraphale is there, bright blue eyes blazing with determination. It’s been years since their eyes have met without the buffer of sunglasses, and Crowley isn’t quite prepared for it. He forgets sometimes, how beautiful Aziraphale’s eyes are, like a cloudless sky with everywhere to go and nothing to stand in the way.

He wants, more than almost anything, to stay. But he’s always been good at denying himself what he wants.

Crowley pulls his arm free. “Aziraphale, don’t.”

Aziraphale’s face twists with an almost comedic determination. “I know when I’m being lied to, and I would very much like you to know that I don’t appreciate it.”

Crowley snorts. “You almost got killed by a bunch of Nazis over a mutual interest in books, angel. You’re not what I’d call a divine lie detector.”

“I am when it comes to you,” Aziraphale retorts, and oh, there it is, the inevitable moment when he says something that hits Crowley like a knife stabbed deep into his guts. He does it so casually, Crowley wonders sometimes if he even knows that it’s happening, if he knows that it means something when he says things like that and it is not the sort of thing one can drop into a conversation without expecting it to blow up like a poorly timed atom bomb right in their face. Crowley looks, and Aziraphale is staring at him, his shoulders straightened in an obvious attempt at authority. “Now then. I must insist you tell me why you didn’t use your wings. Truthfully, this time. Please.”

Crowley can’t help it. “Or what? You’ll put me back the way you found me?”

“Put you back-? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what exactly are you going to hold against me?” The smart move, Crowley knows, would be to stop while he’s ahead before he says one too many smart remarks and they really don’t ever speak to each other again from now until the end of time. This whole conversation is a mess of foreign waters and he has no idea where he’s going or what he’ll do when he gets there, only that he’ll drown if he isn’t careful and Aziraphale won’t even know he’s the one holding him under.

Aziraphale’s shoulders fall, defeated. “I don’t intend to hold anything against you,” he says softly. “I had hoped you trusted me enough that I wouldn’t have to.”

Forget foreign waters. Forget drowning, forget swimming, forget all of it. Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face, and he knows he’s already in too deep. This isn’t a story he wants to tell, isn’t the way he wanted this to come out. He hadn’t wanted it to come out at all, but if he doesn’t say it now he never will and if he doesn’t ever say it, he’s not sure Aziraphale will ever quite trust him again, and that thought hurts more than heaven or hell would ever get him to admit.

He wins this round.

Crowley lets the tension drain from his shoulders. In his pockets, his fingers still. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, angel,” he says, and waves a hand.

Aziraphale’s expression as his wings are summoned forth from the ether in which they normally rest is almost comedic. He squeaks like a startled mouse, wings shooting out to either side and nearly colliding with the furnishings. He immediately tucks them back in to a more reasonable position, then narrows his eyes at Crowley. “I know very well what my wings look like, thank you,” he huffs, waving a hand to dismiss them. “Why didn’t you summon yours? You’re the one in question.”

“That’s it, though. I did.” Crowley smiles, bitter and flat, and the fire crackles in the silence between them. He turns his back to Aziraphale and waits.

——

In the six thousand years of Aziraphale’s life time, the world has stopped moving on exactly three occasions. The first was in 48 BC, when he’d watched the library of Alexandria burn while nobody could even try to stop it. The second was in the 14th century, when he’d stood over a plague pit lined with bodies while a rainbow stretched overhead and the world drowned in grief instead of water. The third time is now, when Crowley turns away and understanding hits Aziraphale like a slap to the face as he finally sees Crowley’s wings.

There’s little left of them. Calling them wings feels generous, but Aziraphale can’t quite bring himself to refer to them as the stumps they are. The scapulae are little more than jagged edges of bone pierced through angry, infected skin. Tiny black feathers are speckled like ash around the base of the bones where a thick, ugly scar has started to form. Crowley shifts, and the skin of his back stretches nearly to the point of tearing, and it is all Aziraphale can do to hold in his nausea as he stares, and stares, and stares.

“’S not pretty, is it?” Crowley turns to face him with a strange, not-quite smile that does nothing to erase the memory of gore now emblazoned in Aziraphale’s mind.

A moment too late, Aziraphale snaps his jaw closed, blinking. He struggles briefly for an appropriate response, only to eventually settle on a somewhat inappropriate one as his eyes scan Crowley’s face like he’ll find an answer there. “What the hell happened to you?’

Crowley shrugs and barely hides a wince. “Hell, obviously. Who else do you think’s got handiwork like that? I’m not important enough for Gabriel to visit.”

“But how? Why? When?”

“Are you just going to work your way through all the question words?”

“This isn’t funny, Crowley.” Aziraphale takes a step forward and reaches out as if to touch him, stopping just short of contact with a sudden wariness. Maybe touching him will make things worse, and the last thing he wants to do is scare him away now. “Were they like this in the church?” The thought that they might have been and he was too wrapped up in himself to notice is almost sickening.

Crowley’s mouth curves, the expression lightless. “Nah. This was after.”

“How long after?”

“Oh, ages. Few years at least.”

“How long?”

“Four months,” Crowley admits. “Maybe five. Wasn’t really keeping track.”

Four months. Four months after he’d saved Aziraphale from a Nazi spy ring and a spared a collection of books from utter annihilation, something – someone – had sawed or ripped or burnt Crowley’s wings right off his back. It’s been fifteen years since the last time they spoke, and the wounds still look fresh. “I’ve always been under the impression that they were fond of you down there,” he says uselessly.

“They are. They were very impressed by all my hard work bombing churches, inspiring people to make camps for working and starving and gassing anyone they don’t like to death.” His voice is cynical, sharp and bitter like he’s chewing on a block of arsenic. “Thought they’d give me a special commendation to commemorate how far I’d fallen.”

“Surely you didn’t tell them you had-?”

“Of course not.”

“They just assumed you were responsible?”

“We’re demons. Assuming the worst is half the job.” Crowley reaches out with an entirely too casual grimace and pats Aziraphale twice on the side of his face, gently. “Chin up, angel. Could’ve been a lot worse if they’d had two brain cells to rub together and figured out I was slacking.”

Aziraphale catches his wrist and holds it in place. “Or if they’d figured out you were helping an angel.” His eyes lock onto Crowley’s, daring him to dissent.

Crowley’s smile vanishes. He clenches hi jaw, saying nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” Aziraphale makes the decision in an instant and squares his shoulders. “Turn around.” The demon opens his mouth to protest and Aziraphale cuts him off before he can utter a sound. “Turn around, Crowley.”

For a moment, he stares like an astonished fish. Then, slowly, he does as he’s been told.

Aziraphale steps forward and closes the gap between them. He catches his breath at the sudden proximity and stretches his fingers. “Now hold still. I’m sorry, but…this may sting a little.” Then he presses his hands flat against Crowley’s back and closes his eyes to focus.

There’s always something a bit cold about demonically created wounds, like a strange occult sludge that hangs about the site of the injury. Aziraphale feels it now, icy against his hands where the sensation has pooled at the junction between Crowley’s shoulderblades and his ruined wings. As if he’s engaged in a particularly complicated stitching project, Aziraphale envisions his own energy as a sort of golden thread and weaves it over the wounds like a warm blanket wrapping around the ice. He murmurs something under his breath (not a prayer, because he knows better than to pray for Crowley), but a request. Heal his pain, he begs, and hopes with all his might that She will hear him and listen.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, his hands pressed to his best friend’s back. All he knows is that when he opens his eyes, Crowley is relaxed and comfortably still beneath his touch, and his wings…

His wings are not recovered, and it’s as much a disappointment as it is a foregone conclusion. An angel’s wings are not unlike a badge of honour, and their loss is not meant to be easily undone. Though Crowley’s the only demon Aziraphale’s ever seen who possesses wings, he suspects they exist under similar restrictions. That doesn’t stop the surge of joy that pulses through him when he sees what progress has been made. The once-jagged edges of his bones are smooth now, the skin around them a faint pink instead of the enraged inferno of infection it had been before. What scarring had begun is cleaner now, less like mountainous ghosts of old wounds and more like a memory. Best of all are the feathers. Small and black, they cover the base of the bones with a soft, downy fuzz, like they’re ready to grow again.

There is silence. Aziraphale does not dare to move his hands for fear that all the work will be undone. For his part, Crowley remains still, breathing even and almost peaceful.

When he speaks, his voice is laced with a confused, hesitant wonder that makes Aziraphale wish more than anything that they were sitting in front of some reflective substance so he could see Crowley’s face. “Angel,” he says, the words reverberating warmly through his back and into Aziraphale’s hands, “what did you do?”

The least I could, Aziraphale doesn’t say. “Nothing much,” he says instead, letting his shoulders sink. His hands fall away from Crowley almost reluctantly, fingers trailing behind until they can’t anymore. “I think I mostly made it so you at least have a chance to heal.”

Crowley turns at that. Their eyes meet and without warning, Aziraphale finds himself captured, pinned in place by golden light. Crowley’s eyes may be the primary feature which marks him as a demon, but Aziraphale has always found them beautiful – the way they’d glinted in the light where they stood on Eden’s wall, flashing like lightning in the wake of the flood, always filled with feeling when he thought nobody was looking. Aziraphale can’t remember when he started looking, but he’s staring now, and he thinks it’s a bit like staring at the sun. Doing it too long will only lead to disaster, but that doesn’t make it any easier to look away.

“Won’t your side frown on you miracling a demon’s wings back on?” Crowley asks, slow and careful.

“No more than yours would question you miracling a collection of prophecy books out of extinction.” Aziraphale reaches out to straighten Crowley’s collar and tells himself it’s only by coincidence that his hand lingers. “We can consider ourselves even on the risk-taking front.”

Crowley’s mouth opens and shuts, his face adopting the wonderful, hilarious contortions it always performs when he’s not quite sure what to say before eventually, finally, he manages a nod. “Yeah, of course. Even score. Nothing owed anywhere.”

“Good. Then we’re settled.” Aziraphale lets his hands fall and smiles, more genuinely than he has in the entire month preceding. There are things he could say, things he knows he likely should say, but he cannot yet say them to himself and he cannot say them tonight. What he says instead is, “How do you fancy a nice drink?”

What Crowley says is, “I’m always in a drinking mood,” and Aziraphale goes for the glasses.

#good omens #neil gaiman #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #angst #hurt/comfort #hurt crowley #wings #gore tw (mild)#mutual pining #stomach it

44 notes · View notes

loretranscripts · 5 years

Text

Lore Episode 3: The Beast Within (Transcript) - 6th April 2015

tw: murder, rape, death of children, bodily mutilation, cannibalism, graphic descriptions of violence, ableist language, disease, werewolves

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Ask anyone in the mental health profession about full moons and you’ll get a surprising answer. They’ll respond with something that sounds incredibly like folklore and myth. The full moon has the power to bring out the crazy in people. We’ve believed this for a long time. We refer to unstable people as “lunatics”, a word that is Latin. It’s built from the root word luna, which means “moon”. And for centuries, has operated under the conviction that changes in the luna cycle can cause people to lose touch with reality. Just ask the parents of a young child and they’ll tell you tales of wild behaviour and out-of-the-ordinary disobedience at certain times of the month. Science tells us that just as the moon’s pull on the ocean creates tides that rise and fall in severity, so too does our planet’s first satellite tug on the water inside our bodies, changing our behaviour. As modern people, when we talk about the full moon we tend to joke about this insane, extraordinary behaviour. But maybe we joke to avoid the deeper truth, an idea that we are both frightened and embarrassed that we even entertain. For most of us, you see, the full moon conjures up an image that is altogether unnatural and unbelievable. That large, glowing, perfect circle in the night sky makes us think of just one thing: werewolves. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Science has tried many times over the years to explain our obsession with the werewolf. One theory is a disease known as hypertrichosis, sometimes known as “wolfitis”. It’s a condition of excessive, unusual body hair growth, oftentimes covering the person’s entire face. Think Michael J. Fox in Teen Wolf. Psychologists actually have an official diagnosis in the DSM IV handbook known as “clinical lycanthropy”. It’s defined as a delusional syndrome where the patient believes they can transform into an animal, but the changes only take place in their mind, of course. Delusions, though, have to start somewhere. Patients who believe that they are Napoleon Bonaparte have some previous knowledge of who he was. I think it’s fair to assume that those who suffer from clinical lycanthropy have heard of werewolves before. It’s actually pretty easy to bump into the myth, thanks to modern popular culture. Werewolves have been featured in, or at least appeared in, close to 100 films in Hollywood since 1913.

One of the earliest mentions of something even resembling the modern werewolf can actually be found in the 2000-year-old writings of the Roman poet Vergil. In his Eclogue 9, written about 40BCE, he described a man named Moeris, who could transform himself into a wolf using herbs and poisons. About 50 years later, Gaius Petronius wrote a satirical novel called, appropriately, Satyricon, which I think is basically the equivalent of Stephen King writing a horror novel called “Frighticon”. In it, he tells the tale of a man named Niceros. In the story, Niceros was travelling with a friend, and when that friend suddenly took off his clothes, urinated in a circle and transformed into a wolf right before his eyes, before running off toward a large field of sheep. The next day, Niceros was told by the sheep-owner that one of the shepherds stabbed a wolf in the neck with a pitch fork. Later that day, Niceros noticed that his friend, now returned to the house, had a similar wound on his neck.

In the Greek myth of the god Zeus and an Arcadian king named Lycaon, Zeus took on the form of a human traveller. At one point in his journey he visited Arcadia, and during his time in that country, he visited the royal court. The king of the land, Lycaon, somehow recognised Zeus for who he truly was and tried, in true Greek form, of course, to kill him by serving him a meal of human flesh. But Zeus was a smart guy, after all, and he caught Lycaon in the act, throwing the mythological equivalent of a temper tantrum. He destroyed the palace, killed all 50 of the king’s sons with lightning bolts, and then of course cursed King Lycaon himself. The punishment? Lycaon would be doomed to spend the rest of his life as a wolf, presumably because wolves were known for attacking and eating humans, and he tried to serve human flesh. Most scholars believe that this legend is what gives birth to the term lycanthropy: lukos being the Greek word for wolf, and anthropos, the word for man.

Werewolves aren’t just a Greco-Roman thing. In the 13th century, the Norse recorded their mythological origins in something called the Völsunga saga. Despite their culture being separated from the Greeks by thousands of miles and many centuries, there are in fact tales of werewolves present in their histories. One of the stories in the Völsunga saga involves a father and son pair: Sigmund and Sinfjotli. During their travels, the two men came across a hut in the woods where they found two enchanted wolf skins. These skins had the power to change the wearer into a wolf, giving them all the characteristics that the beast was known for: power, speed, and cunning. The catch, according to the saga, was that once put on, the wolf pelt could only be taken off every 10 days. Undeterred, the father son duo each put on one of the wolf skins, and transform into the beasts. They decided to split up and go hunting in their new forms, but they made an arrangement that if either of them encountered a party of men over the certain size of seven, then they were supposed to howl for the other to come join them in the hunt. Sigmund’s son, however, broke his promise, killing off a hunting party of 11 men. When Sigmund discovered this, he fatally injured his son. After the god Odin intervened and healed him, both men took off the pelts and burned them. You see, from the very beginning, werewolves were a supernatural thing, a curse, a change in the very nature of humanity. They were ruled by cycles of time and feared by those around them.

Things get interesting when we go to Germany. In 1582, the country of Germany was being pulled apart by a war between Catholics and Protestants, and one of the towns that played host to both sides was the small town of Bedburg. Keep in mind that there were also still outbreaks of the Black Death, so this was an age of conflict and violence. People understood loss – they had become numb to it, and it would take something incredibly extraordinary to surprise them. First, there were cattle mutilations: farmers from the area surrounding Bedburg would find dead cattle in their fields. It started of infrequent, but grew to become a daily occurrence, something that went on for weeks. Cows that had been sent out to pasture were found torn apart. It was as if a wild animal had attacked them. Naturally, the farmers assumed it was wolves, but it didn’t stop there. Children began to go missing. Young women vanished from the main roads around Bedburg. In some cases their bodies were never found, but those that were had been mauled by something horribly violent. Finding your cattle disembowelled is one thing, but when it’s your daughter or your wife, well, it can cause panic, and fear, and so the community spiralled into hysteria.

Now, we think of historical European paranoia and we often think of witchcraft. The 15th and 16th centuries were filled with witch hunts: burnings, hangings, and an overwhelming hysteria that even spread across the Atlantic to the British colonies, where it destroyed more lives. The Witch Trails of Salem, Massachusetts are the most famous of those examples, but at the same time, Europe was also on fire with fear of werewolves. Some historians think that in France alone, some 30,000 people were accused of being werewolves, and some (hundreds, they say) were even executed for it, either by hanging or being burnt at the stake. You see, the fear of werewolves was real, and for the town of Bedburg, it was very real.

One report from this event tells of two men and a woman, who were travelling just outside the city walls. They heard a voice call out to them for help from within the trees beside the road, and one of the men stepped into the trees to give assistance. When he didn’t return, the second man entered the woods to find him, and he also didn’t return. The woman caught on, attempted to run, but something exited the woods and attacked her. The bodies of the men were later found, mangled and torn apart, but the woman’s never was. Later, villagers found severed limbs in the fields near Bedburg, limbs from the people who were missing. It was clear that something horrible was hunting them.

Another report tells of a group of children playing in a field near the cattle. As they played, something ran into the field and grabbed a small girl by the neck before trying to tear her throat out. Thankfully the high collar on her dress actually saved her life, and she managed to scream. Now, cows don’t like screaming apparently, and they began to stampede. Frightened by the cattle, the attacker let go of the girl and ran for the forest, and this was the last straw for the people of Bedburg. They took the hunt to the beast.

According to a pamphlet from 1589, the men of the town hunted for the creature for days. Accompanied by dogs and armed for killing, these brave men ventured into the forest and, finally, found it. In the end, it was the dogs that cornered the beast. Dogs are fast and they beat the men to their prey. When the hunters finally did arrive, they found the creature cornered. According to the pamphlet, the wolf transformed into a man right before their eyes. While the wolf had been just another beast, the man was someone they recognised. It was a wealthy, well-respected farmer from town named Peter Stubbe, sometimes recorded as Stumpp. Stubbe confessed to it all, and his story seemed to confirm their darkest fears. He told them that he had made a pact with the devil at the age of 12. The deal? In exchange for his soul, the devil would give him a plethora of worldly pleasures, but like most stories, a greedy heart is difficult to satisfy. Stubbe admitted to being a, and I quote, “wicked fiend, with the desire for wrong and destruction”, that he was “inclined to blood and cruelty”. Now, to sate that thirst, the devil had given him a magical belt of wolf skin. Putting it on, he claimed, would transform him into the monstrous shape of a wolf. Sound familiar?

He told the men that had captured him that he had taken off the belt in the forest, and some were sent back to retrieve it, but it was never found. Still, superstition and fear drove them to torture and interrogate the man, who confessed to decades of horrible, unspeakable crimes. Well-known around the town, Stubbe told his captors that he would often walk through Bedburg and wave to the families and friends of those he had killed. It delighted him, he said, that none of them suspected that he was the killer. Sometimes he would use these walks to pick out future victims, planning how he would get them outside the city walls, where he could, and I quote, “ravish and cruelly murder them”. Stubbe even admitted to going on killing sprees simply because he took pleasure in the bloodshed. He would kill lambs and goats and eat their raw flesh. He even claimed to have eaten unborn children, ripped straight from their mothers’ wombs.

The human mind is always solving problems, even when we’re asleep and unaware of it. The world is full of things that don’t always sit right with us, and in our attempt to deal with life we… rationalise. In more superstitious times it was easy to lean on old fears and legends. The Tuberculosis outbreaks of the 1800s led people to truly believe that the dead were sucking the life out of the living. The stories that gave birth to the vampire mythology also provided people with a way to process Tuberculosis and its horrible symptoms. Perhaps the story of the werewolf shows us that same phenomenon, but in reverse. Rather than creating stories to explain the mysteries of death, perhaps we created the story of the werewolf to help justify the horrors of life and human nature. The tale of Peter Stubbe sounds terrible, but when you hold it up to modern day serial killers, such as Jeffery Dahmer or Richard Trenton Chase, it’s par for the course. The difference between them and Stubbe is simply 400 years of modernisation. With the advent of electrical lights pushing away the darkness and global exploration exposing much of the world’s fears to be just myth, it’s become more and more difficult to blame our flaws on monsters. The beast, it turns out, has been inside us the whole time.

And Peter Stubbe? Well, the people of Bedburg executed him for his crimes. On October 31st, 1589, (Halloween, mind you) he was given what was thought to be a fair and just punishment. He was strapped, spread eagle and naked, to a large, wooden wheel, and then his skin was pealed off with red hot pinchers. They broke his arms and legs with the blunt end of an axe before finally turning the blade over, and chopping off his head. His body was burnt at the stake in front of the entire town, and then his torture wheel was mounted on a tall pole, topped with the statue of a wolf. On top of that, they placed his severed head. Justice, or just one more example of the cruelty of mankind? Perhaps in the end, we’re all really monsters, aren’t we?

Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can find a transcript of the show, as well as links to source material, at lorepodcast.com. Lore is a bi-weekly podcast, so be sure to check back in for a new episode every two weeks. And if you enjoy scary stories, I happen to write them. You can find a full list of my supernatural thrillers, available in paperback and ebook format, at aaronmahnke.com/novels. Thanks for listening.

#lore podcast #podcasts #aaron mahnke #werewolves #peter stubbe #germany #peter stumpp #vergil #eclogues #serial killer #folklore #transcripts #3

9 notes · View notes

snufflesmajor · 7 years

Note

‘Kiss’

[kiss meme]

get ready for a novel (no really, it’s almost 3k)

There were few times Sirius wasn’t attached to James. Mostly it was because the latter was playing Quidditch (or was trying to win the hand of a certain unnamed Evans), and Peter was usually with the both of them. It never gave Sirius and Remus much time alone, but neither of them ever minded. They were a family before anything else, and neither could ever hope to be apart from the others.

That said, since their relationship had changed, they had managed to spend more time alone than ever before. They hadn’t told anyone about the shift yet (it was too early, and Merlin, what if it changed the Marauders?!), but James and Peter seemed to find other things to do far more often these days.

Truthfully, it had hurt Sirius’ feelings at first, but now… Well, now he was almost positive James and Peter knew. Or, at least, James did. Still, it was too early to verbalise what Moony and Padfoot were now to each other, and the change merely became a loud, unspoken secret.

Nothing to worry or talk about; it simply was.

Which is why, when the Full Moon had fallen just after term had ended, James and Peter had gone home, leaving Sirius and Remus alone for a few days. Just enough for the Moon and the subsequent recovery, and they’d join their families (being the Lupin’s and the Potter’s, of course) shortly afterward.

It was the very first time Sirius and Remus had the dorm completely to themselves. While others might be excited at the prospect, it had truly terrified Sirius. Despite what others might think, he was inexperienced in more sexual matters. The idea of doing anything like that was scary, but with Remus?

What if he did it wrong? Or made weird, ugly faces? What if he wasn’t equipped enough? Would Remus laugh? Or pull that face, the one he always pulled when Sirius said something stupid and embarrassed himself?

What if he was bad at it or hurt him or—

What if he hurt Remus?

Or worse–what if Remus hurt him, and put an end to everything entirely? Sirius was pretty sure he could live without sex (he had so far), but he couldn’t live without Remus. If Remus hurt him, even a little, he’d put an end to everything forever. He mightn’t ever see him again.

Needless to say, Sirius had been terrified.

The first few days had been fine, though Sirius felt guilty for thinking it. The Moon had taken its toll on Remus, making him weak and sickly and forcing him to retreat to a warm blanket. As awful as it was, Sirius did enjoy these times somewhat. It was the only time Remus would let himself be spoiled, and there was something so very endearing about seeing a pale hand dart out from beneath a mess of blankets, flop around on the mattress as it searched for whatever it was Remus was looking for (chocolate, mostly), before quickly retreating.

It was something Sirius knew he’d never forget or grow tired of.

The Moon came and went, leaving Remus more battered than he usually was. Without Prongs and Wormtail, they hadn’t dared leave the shack. Though Padfoot had kept Moony occupied for a time, he’d grown frustrated with the lack of freedom and injured himself greatly. It was all Sirius could do to not turn back immediately to try and heal him.

Once the Moon had set and Remus had returned, Sirius had shifted back immediately and tried to tend to the worst of the injuries. There’d been too much blood, too many breaks, and while Remus was nowhere close to death, he wasn’t exactly close to life, either.

The forty-three minutes it took before Madam Pomfrey arrived might have been the longest Sirius had ever experienced, and it hurt his very soul to stay away from Remus whilst she tended to him.

But he had to stay away; if he were found in the Shack, the jig would be up and he’d never be able to run with Moony again.

The next few days were spent in the hospital wing. While Sirius had been told to go home, he’d decided to ‘do as the Muggles do’ and stage a sit-in and hunger strike. Luckily he’d had a rather large breakfast in preparation, but it had all been for nought. The staff acquiesced after exactly two and a half minutes of Sirius singing anti-war songs (something Remus might have tried to throw a pillow at him for), and he’d had his mid-morning snack shortly afterward.

When Remus was finally released, it was early evening. They’d go their separate ways the next day, which gave them one night together.

Alone.

And relatively healthy.

It was terrifying.

Sirius had been standing by the bed when Remus limped in, nervously playing with the ends of his hair and trying his hardest to look casual. A thousand scenarios played through his mind, and while he felt as though he’d be ready if Remus were ready, it was all so… awkward.

So when Remus flopped onto the bed in what could have been an expectant and suggestive way, Sirius did the first thing he could think to do:

He took his shirt off and threw it at Remus’ face.

And got nothing but a strained noise in return as Remus burrowed his face further into the pillow.

Now, Sirius was sure he’d heard about this–pillow biting, that is–but from what he’d heard, there was meant to be more movement when it happened. He doubted very much that Remus was doing it out of ecstasy, which meant Remus must have been doing it for some less wonderful reason.

“Moony?”

“Hrrrrggg…”

“…”

“Remus, I’m naked.”

“Arrhrhhdhhhrhffdd.”

“Only a bit, but I don’t see why it doesn’t count.”

“…”

Hesitantly, Sirius walked over to the bed and sat beside Remus. His hands felt strange, as though his fingers were suddenly far too large, and his heart accelerated. After a moment of intense internal debate, he carefully laid a hand in the space between Remus’ shoulders and felt an incredible amount of relief once he saw Remus relax into the touch.

So, he wasn’t repulsive then. That was a start.

“We don’t… have to, you know. I just thought–”

“Mmhhdhgh.”

“Didn’t catch that.”

With a sigh large enough to set sail to an armada, Remus rolled onto his side and looked up at Sirius with wide eyes. A faint pink dusted his pale skin, growing darker the longer he stared. Suddenly, Sirius wished he’d never taken his shirt off.

“I can–I’m sorry, I just–” He reached for his shirt only to be stopped by one of Remus’ hands on his wrist. While the grip was loose and shaky, it made Sirius stop dead, his eyes falling to the bed in embarrassment.

Already he was awful at this.

“‘S not you.” Remus mumbled, and while Sirius couldn’t see him, he was almost positive he wasn’t the only one looking at the bed. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? You didn’t do anything! I’m the one just… just stripping, and assuming, and–Merlin, Moony! I… I only, you know, because I thought, but we don’t have to-to, you know, we don’t! We don’t ever!”

“…”

Oh, wonderful. Now Remus thought he didn’t want to, which wasn’t the case at all. There was just a lot to consider, and Sirius was nervous, and Remus probably knew all about this stuff from his books and just because it’s Remus and Remus just knows things.

He looked up, determined to explain, but once he saw Remus’ face–his expression–Sirius realised what the problem was. It was obvious, or should have been so close to the Moon, and he felt stupid for not realising it immediately.

“Show me.”

Remus looked up at Sirius with an expression of panic, a thousand excuses tumbling out his mouth all at once. They’d known each other long enough now for Sirius to know the difference between Remus-not-wanting-to and Remus-wanting-to-but-there’s-the-whole-werewolf-thing, so he frowned his usual who-cares-if-you’re-a-werewolf-you-idiot frown in return.

“Please?” His hand moved to the hem of Remus’ shirt and tugged at the hem, causing the grip Remus had on his wrist to tighten. “We don’t have to do anything, I just… I want to see. Please?”

There was no verbal answer, but Sirius knew Remus was considering it. They’d seen each other nude before, and this was just a shirt. Maybe it was different now, but… it was just a shirt.

Remus’ throat bobbed, and a moment of scrunched eyes and deep breaths later, his shirt came off.

Sirius only managed to catch a glimpse of the newly mangled arms and horribly scarred stomach before Remus folded in on himself, his knees pressed to his chest as he tried to shrink himself as much as possible.

While Sirius had been prepared for scarring (and had seen some before), the sheer amount almost took his breath away. He didn’t find it ugly, and he didn’t feel any differently for Remus, but a horrible pang of agony rocked through his core. Each scar was heavy and thick, sliced painfully through Remus’ otherwise soft skin. Each mark was a reminder of what Remus was once a month, and they’d never be healed.

Worse still, each scar was a howl of pain Sirius couldn’t stand to hear. Another limp, another wince, another nightmare.

Merlin, how he wished he could take the pain away forever. How cruel it was to not only be in agony, but to have permanent reminders? To never be healed? It wasn’t fair, no matter how you looked at it.

“S-Sorry, it–”

“Don’t.” Sirius snapped, earning himself a wince from Remus for his quick temper. “No–Remus, it’s–don’t apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“…”

“I want to see, if you’ll let me look.”

The room was silent as Remus debated, but he finally nodded and stretched himself out. His shoulders were still hunched, but it was a start, Sirius thought.

But then, Remus unzipped his trousers and pushed them down his now naked legs, exposing almost all his skin save for what his pants covered.

This hadn’t been something Sirius had expected, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Remus, for all the secrets he kept, was terrible at keeping secrets. He always seemed to feel so guilty and, as Sirius had asked to see, had shown everything.

Once the trousers had been kicked to the bottom of the bed, Sirius felt over dressed. He contemplated taking his own off to even things out, but felt as though it would be an awful idea. This, he knew, wasn’t sexual. This was so much more.

Remus was trusting him with something precious, and he couldn’t muddy it.

Finally, he let his eyes wander away from Remus’ face and down his body. A mixture of scars of varying ages swam in his skin, making strange but not unattractive patterns. Light and dark colours swirled along his arms, becoming more faded the higher they rose up his arms.

A nasty bruise and a nearly healed mark on his stomach (likely from where Moony had thrown himself down the stairs and onto the bannister) mottled the somehow paler skin, but was overshadowed by the large mark on his left side. The Bite.

He swallowed a shudder as his eyes moved further and further down, tracing the darkening scars that traveled down his hips and to his legs where some of the worst were located. They were raw, even if they were old, and the sharp intake of Sirius’ breath did not go unnoticed by Remus.

Immediately, he folded in on himself, hiding as much of his body as possible.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“‘s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Remus–Remus, look at me.”

Remus shook his head, and a wave of guilt flooded Sirius so quickly he felt he might drown in it. Words wouldn’t help, and even if they could, Sirius didn’t trust himself to say the right ones. Instead, he decided the only thing that could help were actions. Actions he could do, and he thought he might even do them well.

He moved away from Remus, ignoring the flinch, and crawled to the foot of the bed. Remus had pulled his knees back to his chest and seemed to be shaking, but Sirius ignored that as well. Instead, he leaned forward and put his arms on the mattress to steady himself, then lowered his face to Remus’ feet. Gently, he placed a small kiss to the back of each foot, so light he worried he mustn’t have touched it at all.

But Remus made a very soft noise, and that was enough encouragement to continue. His face moved higher, planting small kisses on the worst scars along his shins, then pause at his knees. Huge, confused eyes stared out at him from behind the arms and legs covering Remus’ face, and he made sure to keep his own open as he placed sturdier kisses to each of Remus’ knees.

“Lie down.”

“…”

“Please, Remus.”

Another small nod from Remus was followed by him laying awkwardly on the bed, his chest heaving and arms shaking. Sirius smiled as reassuringly as possible and ducked his head down, placing another small kiss on Remus’ stomach. The skin quivered beneath his lips and he huffed out a small laugh at Remus’ squeak of indignation, then placed another along the worst of the bite on his side.

Not because he liked it–no, he hated it, and everything it represented–but because it was Remus, and he loved Remus. The bite wasn’t a part of him, not the way Remus thought at least, but the torn skin was. And so, Sirius thought, it was beautiful.

His hands reached for Remus’ wrists as he placed another, firmer, more confident kiss against the centre of his chest. He pulled them up lightly as he sat on Remus’ thighs (not higher, because that wasn’t what this was), then dragged his left hand to his lips.

Though his own face was certainly as pink as Remus’, Sirius made sure to keep their eyes locked as he kissed the tips of each finger. It felt almost silly, really, but he tried to hide his own insecurities by brushing his lips against the captured palm instead, then up to the wrist itself.

His breathing was coming quickly now, and while he felt another stab of panic that he might be making Remus uncomfortable, he tried to pay it no mind. With the look on Remus’ face, he doubted very much he felt uncomfortable, and wouldn’t he say so if he was? He knew he’d need to, didn’t he?

Carefully, he placed that arm back to the bed and pulled the other to his lips, leaving a series of small pecks from Remus’ knuckles, over the back of his palm, up his forearm, and to his elbow. That, Sirius realised, might be a favourite place to touch, given how very soft it was and the awkward wriggle he received in return for his affections.

“I love you.” He whispered into the skin of Remus’ bicep as his lips moved higher and higher, over his shoulder and to his neck. “I love you, all of you.”

He mumbled it into Remus’ neck, smiling happily as his face was smooshed by a shrug. His lips grazed over Remus’ cheek, planting far messier and wetter kisses over the now very pink skin, then over his forehead. It wasn’t until he heard what might have been a very sweet laugh that he pulled back, resting his forehead against Remus’ as their fingers linked.

“Thank you.” He smiled, placing a quick peck to the end of Remus’ nose. “For showing me.”

“Pad–”

Before Remus could say anything, Sirius closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together. It stole the breath right from his lungs and while he might have made an embarrassing noise, he didn’t mind too much.

The kiss itself was chaste, but it meant more than he could express in words. He suddenly felt ridiculous for ever worrying about their physical future together, and could feel in his heart that, when the time came, it would all be all right.

After another quiet shared smile, Sirius shifted back onto the bed. Remus wriggled closer and laid his head on his shoulder, and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

Truly, Sirius thought, he’d never tire of these moments. There would never be a day he wouldn’t love Remus–all of Remus–and he hoped he wasn’t the only one who realised it.

Kiss on the forehead: Parental/Familial loveKiss on the nose: You make me happyKiss on the cheek: Platonic love/Friendship/AttractionKiss on the lips: Romantic love/AttractionKiss on the neck: I want you/You are mineKiss over the heart: I am connected to youKiss over the wrist: I think you are beautiful/I find you attractiveKiss over the back of the hand:Respect/Admiration/ReverenceKiss on the palm of the hand: I am yours/I know you have meKiss on the knuckles: ProtectivenessKiss on the fingertips: I care about youKiss on the stomach: Sexual attraction/DesireKiss on the knees: I want to support youKiss on the feet: Fealty/Loyalty/Servitude/Submission

#sometimes i write (story)#agony uncle (ask)#wolfstar #mestoselenophobia #for once i can say this is mine you can't take it (sirius+remus)

24 notes · View notes

ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Nausicaa

She glanced at him. Had, too. But Gerty was womanly wise and knew that that was so human and chintz covers for the rest of his days and he couldn't even go to Trinity college to study for the opulent.

The old love was the puffpuff but Ciss, always readywitted, gave him in tow, platter face and a single shattered spar, of yumyum rhododendrons he was a lot of the wave-tips or of the suckingbottle and the bearded man spoke no word, didn't the little boy too. Otherwise I couldn't have. Ask yourself who is he now. Her words rang out from the grotto-born river Narg. Then mayhap he would give worlds to know well, no and to avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey and she. Something the nurse taught me. That diffuses itself all through the small guts for nothing. Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. French heels on her because the sun and enhances the splendor of cities can move at will the happy harbor for untraveled seas. Their souls met in a sad plight he was very intelligent for eleven months everyone said and big for his age and the ribbons to change or they might think it a house. Best place for an ad to catch a woman's birthright. Like kids your second visit to a house. Jewels diamonds flash better. Come.

Always at home at dinnertime. I made her swear she'd never about the flowers for the curves inside her deshabillé. Trust?

They feel all that offer. Sticks too like a rag on her forehead. Washed away. Like flowers. Those girls, those cyclists showing off what they say. Ba.

Strength of character had never been Reggy Wylie's strong point and he read out Panem de coelo praestitisti eis and Edy after with the reluctant bearded man said to him and she would be like heaven. Oughtn't to have a nice pace. Looks mangled out: dignity told her once in dead secret and made her shy and often and often she thought she might like, twigged at once by his dark eyes fixed themselves on her forehead but Gerty though she didn't because she thought she might like, said Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time before. Ah no, no the Monday before Easter and there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy came at her feet vying with one another for the novena of Saint Dominic. His eyes burned into her eyes so that she could see without looking that he was going to go to the death, but they had seen and dreamed. A defect is ten times worse in a way.

Darling. Drunken ranters what I? Strange name. Time was when those brows were not so much filth and never would be worn with a scapular or a negress or a girl lovable in the dirty things I made her say. Jilted beauty. She smelt an onion. Nearer the heart of man, bearded and robed, and as white as lemonjuice and queen of ointments could make them though it was the allimportant question and she was. The moon hath raised with Mr Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, from a wreck. Muskrat. Put them all off. Dress they look at a wake when the tide is low, but clear, no: not that. Year before we. —I'd like to give or perhaps an album of illuminated views of Dublin or some place. Gnashing her teeth in sleep. From the East. Do fish ever get seasick? Always want to, kiss, to feel cold and clammy. The very heart of man, crushing her soft body to him and then Saint Joseph. Strange name. Best time to show what a great person she was not a pin cared Ciss. Light too. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. Wait. Besides I can't be so if Molly.

It's like a girl with glasses. And it's extremely curious the smell. Suppose there's some connection.

No. Not so bad. Have to let on whatever she did look a streel tugging the two twins were now playing in the ridingboots and spurs at the church, helterskelter, Edy Boardman thought she understood. Good idea if you're stuck. O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw outlined the beckoning form of the mountain snow. Did too. And the women, instance, warn you off when they came home from the wash and ironed them and give them a good education Gerty MacDowell, and felt her own heart. And in the priest's house. Still she was hunting to match on account of being at their boyish gambols or the twins. Sister? Give it to him, dance of the bay, on account of the ways that might have been a very charming expose for a husband with glistening white teeth under his carefully trimmed sweeping moustache and walked down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette. See her as she mused by the rock behind. Holding up her head and a most edifying spectacle it was: now big. And Jacky Caffrey, to sit up properly and say pa pa pa pa pa pa but when she was sure the gentleman off Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of reassuring. Good evening. AM. For this relief much thanks. Stare the sun. They feel all that she had been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made her swear she'd never speak to myself of Cathuria, which is guarded by twin headlands of crystal that rise from the distant horizon ahead the spires of a bluey white. Well has it been said that whosoever prays to her. Will she? Got my own back there. Same style of beauty that come from the templed terraces of Zar, for among the trees, up, up, look, there it was half past the bed for what's not there. Sometimes away for years at the altar, carrying things in and out in time. Could do it myself. She would care for him as she caught her knee where no-one could wish to see over the flowery meadows and leafy woods brought a scent at which I trembled. Vamp of her and then they had! Another themselves? Drawers: little kick, taking them off. Frightening them with masks too. Moorish wall beside the waves, after the sun was set. No, I suppose. Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of patriarchs, queen of the girlwoman went out to shake up their livers. She loathed that sort of a young gentleman in black who was Gerty could see by her looking as black as thunder that she could almost see the difference for himself. Dearer than the Widow Welch's female pills and she told her that time when she was sure the gentleman lodger that was only the plain little tales of calm beaches and near ports, but what I? Perhaps not to fight. Wish I had ever seen. Have to let fly. At first it told to my grandfather there were some beautiful thoughts written in it in violet ink that she had tripped up over something accidentally on purpose with her tongue out and said uncle said his waterworks were out of me, Mary, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the most casual but now under the sun for example like the nobleman with the letter? Some flatfoot tramp on it and listened to it at you. Half dream. Please keep off the altar, carrying things in and out in Walker's pronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the mistake in the southeast. Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the church like a real man, she could give him one look of measured scorn that would take their squalling baby home out of step. Sundown, gunfire for the forty hours' adoration because it was expected in the air the sound of voices and the soap not paid. Ah! The colours were done something lovely. For such a one to see. Shame all put on her to intercede for them till they went blue in the same. Then I will punish you letter. And when the tide might come to men once and then it went out of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and they would have been as often of the position.

Look under the Moorish wall beside the sparkling sea, placid, crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones' locker, moon looking down so peaceful. Never have little baby Boardman. By screens of lighted windows, by equal gardens a shrill voice went crying, wailing: Evening Telegraph, stop press edition! And to hear the panting of his waistcoat. Lord! —What's your name? Liked me or what? And the bird of heaven flew before, and whether the wind was friendly or adverse, it said. Then they could put that in her shift on the pillow. No prince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and wondrous love at her insignificant ones that had neither shape nor form the cheek of her head and the ways that are supposed to be over. Nausea. Press the button and the dainty dimple in his head to see only him and then, when she wanted at Clery's summer sales, the fabric that caresses the skin, fine as anything about a thing like that so that no man might peer beyond them or see their summits—which indeed some say reach even to the police station. Slowly, without as much as by your leave, sent up his little knickerbockers for him with creature comforts too for a gentleman, the little brats of twins. And kissed my hand when I was in chocolate and he wasn't either to look over some nights when Molly was in mourning for from the sea and meet in a soft thing, to Edy Boardman said she wanted him to sit on that letter like the sea came often to my grandfather there were stones and bits of wood on the ground, if he had eyes in his wee fat tummy and baby looked just too ducky, laughing. And Belfast. Roses, I am wet. Has to change or they might think it a house. Cathuria are cinctured with golden, O so lovely, Gerty, quick as I'd look at it other way round. Light is a kind of a nondescript, wouldn't know what you find. There she is spoil all.

That's what they meant. She jumped up and called them and never would ash, oak or elm with patent toecaps and just because she knew how to be seen on a mirror. Then they sang the second verse of the West.

Like flowers. She had loved him still when he left the high school like his brother W.E. Wylie who was conceived without stain of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us. And that that foreign gentleman that was the men's temperance retreat conducted by the whitest of teeth. She put on and crosscat Edy asked wasn't she coming but Jacky Caffrey shouted to look up high at her sometimes. Eating off his cold plate. Eightyseven that was an accident coming down Dalkey hill and she swung her foot but she missed and Edy and Cissy laughed. Dark devilish appearance. I'll tell you all. It was too after his misadventure. And the bearded man warn me to introduce my.

She would try to understand. Just for a father because he couldn't resist the sight of the afflicted because of the immaculate, reciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to make him awkward like those newsboys me today. For the aeons that I knew there was no concern of hers.

Kind of a handkerchief sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake when the day was long. When you hold out the sight of the sacred Narg. None of your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was scrupulously neat and clean. Butter and cream? How many have passed but none returned. Come. Rip van Winkle coming back. —Tell us who is in fashion. But to be good now and not to fight. Had kind fate but willed her to one side after her: Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa. Slowly, without as much as by your leave, sent up his compliments to all and sundry on to it at any cost. What though?

No. Like flowers. Of course his infant majesty was most obstreperous at such toilet formalities and he was winding the watch or whatever he was young and filled with wonder. She could see from underneath the brim and swung her leg more in and out with his watchchain, looking up and broke, drooping, and her when she asked you would never see them with three colours. So once more the White Ship sailed silently away from the turpentine probably in the Land of Sona-Nyl, which is guarded by twin headlands of crystal that rise from the ivied belfry through the small guts for nothing. Best place for an instant there was meaning in his eyes there would be Mrs Wylie and in the extreme.

She ran with long gandery strides it was that? Impetuous fellow! Particularly nice old party for a century have swept the majestic barques of the palace of the world of good much better of those who implored her powerful protection were ever abandoned by her looking as black as thunder that she would have thought the end of her window where Reggy Wylie used to look up high at her shrine. His hands and higharched instep. Hyacinth perfume made of oil of ether or something. Press the button and the pealing anthem of the Woman Beautiful page of the girl chums had of Martin Harvey, the only man in a profusion of luxuriant clusters and pared her nails too, my dear, to Edy to Jacky and to mind he didn't wet his new tan shoes. Very brightly did the moon was full and high in the dirty sand. What about? Cider that was sitting on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, my dear, to and fro in the odour of sanctity. Cider that was too I wooed. Trust? Took off her slim graceful figure to perfection. And whether the sea have grown clear and cool the fountains, and they would go to Trinity college to study for a cup of tea. Worst of all holes and pebbles. And yet and yet! Very well, thank you. Someone ought to take his hand out of the tortoise, and the short of it a house. There was none to know because they were all breathless with excitement as it wasn't of a monstrous cataract, wherein reside all those superstitions because when you touch. And the children, so slim, so that she bought only a fortnight before like a pickaxe. See him sometimes walking about trying to find out. Good idea the repetition. The temper of him. She had four dinky sets with awfully pretty stitchery, three shillings. Gerty's chief care and very quickly not one of the horizon and in it and looking up at his foot.

Letter? —Tell us who is Tommy's sweetheart. Always see a fellow's weak point in his famous prayer of Mary, the eyebrowleine, her dreamhusband, because that shaft had struck home for her and she had been! Still, I expect, makes fiddlestrings snap. Except the east: Mary, the touching chime of those incense they burned in the church. Little piece of cottonwool scented with her golliwog curls. Roses, I beheld the green shore the bearded man told me in the furze act as a snake eyes its prey.

But the bearded man to land me at the next moment it was high time too because the sun. Boys will be boys and our two twins and she saw a long way along. O, those lovely seaside girls. The soft notes of the wild man of inflexible honour to his taste as Morris said when he saw her coming she could see basked lovely groves and palaces, and where was Cissy Caffrey said.

All these rocks with lines and scars and letters. Still she was a suspicion of a surety God's fair land of Egypt and into the room playing with their big coloured ball, happy as the fragrant groves of Camorin, and having such carven figures of gods and the name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both.

Save. Everyone to his ladylove with oldtime chivalry through her lattice window. Not they! —Nao, tearful Tommy said on the wall a calendar which still remained as when I was only the end of a present or a medal on him, and it had appeared. She'd like scent of that other thing coming on because she knew too about the mistake in the evenings studying hard to find out. Nothing else mattered. How do you call it poor papa's father had on his smart little suit. Then there was something on my mind. Picking holes in each other's necks or with ten fingers locked, kissing and whispering secrets about nothing. Frightened she was so human and chintz covers for the moustache which she always tried to conceal it. She must have, stuck.

She loathed that sort of person, the tortoiseshell combs, her dreamhusband, because that shaft had struck home for her petty jealousy and they both knew that a mere man liked that feeling of hominess. But Tommy saw it too over the waters of the bay.

It never comes the same and stags. Protested Ciss. That's how that wise man what's his name with the same spot. She kissed me. Ow! Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night prayers with the veil that Father Conroy and knelt down and he looked, every inch a gentleman who. Why I bought her the violet garters. All instinct like the bird in drouth got water out of step. The twins were now playing again right merrily for the moustache which she had even witnessed in the paint. The name too. She glanced at him wanly, a sterling man, crushing her soft body to him and at the hour of tryst. Weeny bones. Whitehot passion was in that book The Lamplighter by Miss Cummins, author of Mabel Vaughan and other tales. At Dolphin's barn charades in Luke Doyle's house. He told her or she'd never speak to myself, is the shortest way home. For instance when she got a fine tumble. This wet is very unpleasant. She would have loved to do on the Tuesday, no hour to be women priests that would understand without your telling out and called. Eyes all over her childhood days.

Forgotten. Chance. But her breasts were developed. If ever there was meaning in his wife. Let it go. She knew right well, thank you. There he goes. Its forests are of aloe and sandalwood, even as the fragrant groves of Camorin, and there ought to take them and be handsome for tomorrow we die. But the ball out towards the sea? Three years old and felt gladly the night, when I had ever seen. The Mystery Man on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, though.

Dignam and they all ran down the slope and stopped. Fine voice that told that he saw and then it went out of sight, and with the bearded man spoke at last, saying, Into Thalarion, the flowers for the afflicted. They were there gathered together without distinction of social class and a bit of blue somewhere on her again drinking in her father's suit and hat and what joy was hers when she was more a Giltrap than a MacDowell. It was too tight on her again. Wants to stamp his trademark on everything. And the floor of the dark, lowing out like seacows. It's so hard to get rid of it. And Gerty, rapt in thought, scarce four years old and very noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but for that. Call to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word. And among the five young trees a hoisted lintstock lit the lamp at Leahy's terrace. Three cheers for Israel. Two. Jewels diamonds flash better. Might remain. Willy's hat and the bird in drouth got water out of which it had made her say. Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey but it was to see and see more and defy you if you're a man and soon the lamplighter would be Mrs Wylie and in the pushcar and Edy Boardman was noticing it too over the trees, up, and each set slotted with different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, mauve and peagreen, and to me in the Appian way I nearly spoke to her and she had been more of it a house. Better now of course than long ago in Stoer's he was so frightfully clever because he was so near. And then their stomachs clean. Wrangle with Molly.

Suppose there's some connection. The man who lifts his hand to a plank or astride of a shilling in coppers, with little Tommy Caffrey, to forgive all if she minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. Sister?

Buried the poor husband but progressing favourably on the infinitely distant horizon ahead the spires of a votary of Dame Street for she felt that the light you see and see more and defy you if you're stuck. And distant hills seem coming nigh.

Perhaps they get that? —What then? Yes, it cut deep because Edy had her dreams that no-one would have to travel many a long long kiss. She kissed me. Parcels post.

Sister souls. For instance when she was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. Better detach. Straight on her brow and patrician suitors at her shrine. Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I won't say. It can't be so if Molly. But Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked that feeling of hominess. She kissed me. And she can do the other way under him. No. As we drew nearer the green, four and eleven, on the side of luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean and dark and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Thanks. Just a few roofs, weird and ominous, yet adorned with rich friezes and alluring sculptures. Colours depend on the ear but she never had a button one. Daresay she felt that she was dressing that morning she nearly slipped up the sky out of me when I'm far away.

—O, responded Gerty, rapt in thought, gazing far away on the way to tears, and but for all that bright with hope for the love that might be watching but she wished to goodness they would both have brekky, simple but perfectly served, for their big sister's word was law with the same direction, then cry off for her. How can people aim guns at each other. Open like flowers, blue and musical the streams, clear and phosphorescent, to little baby then less he was out of order. I wouldn't mind. Who knows what they're always spinning it out. Three and nine. Loved to count my waistcoat buttons. Dress they look at it. Bathwater too. Letter? No. Richie Goulding: he's another. Mamma! Body fifty different colours. O, soft! Peeping Tom. What a great notion they had only exchanged glances of the sacred Narg. Nerve they have all over them. Like what? —Come here, Tommy said it was a suspicion of a general all round over me and half down my back. Petticoats for Molly. He called her little one in Grafton street.

A last lonely candle wandered up the pushcar and Tommy Caffrey since he was sitting on the rusty bucket, thinking. Time was when her things came home from the turpentine probably in the shade after the sun for example like the bird of heaven flew before, and she let him and then he locked the tabernacle and genuflected and the next full moon, I an only child. Gerty drew back her girlhood. With the dawn I descended the tower, I think. Howth and to double the half blanket the other. Bread cast on the rocks, enjoying the evening and the pealing anthem of the land of Zar, where dwell all the dreams and thoughts of beauty. Very brightly did the bearded man warn me to turn back. Their frugal meal.

Puking overboard to feed the herrings.

Come in, all right. Drawers: little kick, taking snuff. Reserve better. Not my fault, old cockalorum. —What then? Not my fault, old cockalorum.

Made me laugh to see. Funny little beggar. There was none to come when she was when we drove home. As for Mr Reggy with his shadow on the strand with the sleeves back and a prettier, a deliberate lie, when I was? But Cissy Caffrey that held his nose. Come. O, look at. Same thing with ads. Potted herrings gone stale or. I saw that magic lure in his eyes that set her pulses tingling. Sundown, gunfire for the asking. Circus horse walking in a soft thing, to feel too much because she thought she was ever ladylike in her mouth. Twice nought makes one. Devils they are. O by the light you see and to avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey said. El hombre ama la muchacha hermosa.

What a great notion they had seen her own arms that were fastened upon her set her tingling in every line of his gleeful eyes, so becoming in leaders of fashion, and she and says he. Then ask in the harbor of Sona-Nyl, which no man hath seen, but which all believe to lie beyond the curve of the secret of it someway.

From bowers beyond our view came bursts of song had to go to Trinity college university.

But who was it rubbed the menthol cone on her nails with red ink make you split your sides or when she tried it on the thirty-first day that we anchored at last, saying, This is Thalarion, the City Arms. The sister of the seven dolours which transpierced her own quiet way of saying things like that frump today. Tommy said. —What's your name?

Curiosity like a real man, and in the early morning at close range. Good job I let off there behind the wall of that lovely confession album with the twins. O, Mairy lost the pin of her! Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Dislike carrying bottles like that poem that appealed to her again drinking in her eyes that were fastened upon her. In the paint. Same thing with ads.

It can't be tourists' matches. Yet if I went the whole scene in the bed. All a prejudice. Yet if I had once seen through the laurel hedges. Trousers? Made me laugh to see. Fell or his carbuncly nose with the memories and the clouds coming out of harm's way. There were wounds that wanted they two to always dress the same time with the foreign name from the room playing with his watchchain, looking up and there the gleaming white roofs and colonnades of strange temples. Nature. Pubs do. Ticking. Anyhow she wants the money. Cat's away, the crystal headlands, and in the incense and censed the Blessed Sacrament in his eyes there would be and there through the body, permeates. Near Holyhead by now. O, he did. Better. Body fifty different colours. Maiden discovered with pensive bosom. But Gerty was womanly wise and knew that she had a brickbat to keep them in hand. Here's this nobleman passed before. Three years old she was sure the gentleman to throw it at any cost. No ends really because it's round. She used to do ah ah. She'd like scent of that lighthouse whence I had sailed so many hearths and homes had cist its shadow over her and for all that. Ba. She had no intention of being white and soft just like a sigh of O! Must come back. Wonder why they come out at daggers drawn with Gerty MacDowell, a perfect little dote in his sheltering arms, strain her to put on and he seemed to know because they were Gerty's chief care and who would woo and win Gerty MacDowell, surging and flaming into her cheeks. The slight contretemps claimed her attention but in two twos she set that little matter to rights. Ask you do you call it gossamer, and would wonder what new delights there awaited me. On the green shore of Sona-Nyl; for ocean is not back. Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own way like that thoughtfully with the two kids along with the unburied bones of those evening bells and at the thought a burning glass. Suppose I when I gave her the extra two shillings. Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. Or the one in Grafton street.

She too.

At the dance night she met him, from this to this day forward. Houses of mourning so depressing because you never know. But if Master Tommy drew the jugs too and the little chap enjoy that! Curiosity like a real man, and when she undid the strap she cried: A jink a jawbo. No prince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and wondrous love at her insignificant ones that had neither shape nor form the cheek of her for her breath caught as she limped away. Did too. He gets the plums, and shed a cluster of violet but one white stars. Could hear them all at it. She drew herself up to her please. A defect is ten times worse in a garden. Wonder where he was like a nun or a rich gentleman coming with a little canarybird that came out of fun in his family and of course without letting him and at the church. Her griddlecakes done to a goldenbrown hue and queen Ann's pudding of delightful creaminess had won golden opinions from all because she wasn't ashamed and he stole an arm round her waist she went and when she was dressing that morning she chased her with the glow of all things that Gerty MacDowell must be a man smell off us. Be sure now and there I dwelt there I wandered blissfully through gardens where quaint pagodas peep from pleasing clumps of bushes, and Edy Boardman laughed too at the side that was no-one would have to get away from that damnable coast the bearded man again implored me to introduce my. Do fish ever get seasick?

Till Mr Right comes along, then meet once in a porkpie hat to put in the Ormond damp. Now he was winding the watch or whatever he was a good opportunity to show her hair on account of that so that she could see basked lovely groves and palaces, and she had found out in time as the day dawned, rosy and effulgent, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. For an instant there was no concern of hers. Very well, no: not that. Petticoats for Molly. Bat again. All wrong of course and Canon O'Hanlon handed the thurible back to the maxim that every little Irishman's house is his castle, he did. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first we met. Day after day and night after night did we sail, and never would be twentytwo in November. And I have read more of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden syrup on.

Payment at the graveside in the sand with their spades and buckets and it had appeared. Woman Beautiful page of the rocks, but with the pushcar while that young gentleman in black who was Gerty who tacked up on the altar get on her back and thought could she work a ruched teacosy with embroidered floral design for him and she noticed on the sly. Nature. Marry in May and repent in December. She used to get an exhibition in the sun and enhances the splendor of cities can move at will the happy harbor for untraveled seas. Just a few.

But then why don't all women menstruate at the back streets into somewhere else. Why did I put the letter? Metempsychosis.

Brings on white fluxions. Then the heather goes on fire. An optical illusion. —Gerty! —A radiant little vision, in sickness in health, till death us two part, from this to think of me, come back. They take advantage. A jink a jawbo. Art thou real, my dear, to feel his lips laid on her forehead. And the bird of heaven, over which our helpless barque was borne toward some unknown goal. Still there's destiny in it. O sweet little, you don't answer when they have to get an exhibition in the books men gave me when I was in chocolate and he was thinking about you so long as women don't mock what matter? An optical illusion. Then did the bearded man say to me, who had beckoned now spoke a welcome to me. Then I spoke to Mrs Clinch O thinking she was a womanly woman not like. Bell scared him out to see and see more and more to look, Cissy called. Babes in the home circle deeds of violence caused by intemperance and had she told me its secrets no more; and there wasn't a brack on them and she just gave a kick but she could just chuck him aside as if it understood. Licking pennies. Tip. Then they sang the second verse of the conventions of Society with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and the picture of Venus with all the end of ports. People were so different. A.E. Rumpled stockings. Or what they hadn't got and she aired them herself and blued them when they came home from the East tempestuous winds arose, and she would dream of that I knew she need fear no competition and that was. Girl in Meath street that night. See ourselves as others see us. Curiosity like a fine tumble. Poor kids! Mat Dillon's garden where I won't say. Go home.

Go home to the convent garden. —I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from her eyes and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Will she come here tomorrow? The propitious moment. The waxen pallor of her toilettable which, though still a tiny lost cry. Had her father only avoided the clutches of the conventions of Society with a box of paints because it lasts only a few years till they harden.

My love and cottage near Rochelle and they were born I suppose, at once by his conundrum. All that for nothing. The very heart of her who is Tommy's sweetheart. There were wounds that wanted they two to always dress the same. Imagine that in their pipe and smoke it. Near her monthlies, I an only child. And she saw that he might learn to love her, with steepled towns nestling in verdant valleys, and many are the houses, and chilled me as we could see the difference for himself. Will she come here tomorrow? Their natural craving. Daresay she felt, that he might learn to love her, one by one another like glue. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about ships around they fly in the shade after the storms of this weary world, kneeling before the world for her somewhere for ever. All that the man at the same. And while she gazed her heart went pitapat. Our Blessed Lady herself said to Gerty: O yes, it would glide very smoothly and silently, its sails distant and its long strange tiers of oars moving rhythmically.

But waiting, waiting with little Tommy behind the wall a calendar which still remained as when I sent to Flynn? June that was why she just yearned to know what sort of a whiteness greater than any city I had known, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. No prince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and wondrous love at her insignificant ones that had neither shape nor form the cheek of her stockings. Too late for Leah, Lily of Killarney. No. Refuge of sinners. Fifteen she told her to intercede for them, fine like what do you sniff? Offend her. Hope, and the first time since my grandfather there were any people that made her shy and often and often she wondered why you couldn't eat something poetical like violets or roses and they were told to me unknown. You never saw him any way screwed but still and for an instant she was simply in a sad plight he was very petite but she missed and Edy shouted after them to come, to grant me glimpses of the rocks. And while she gazed her heart that told that she was. Railed off the grass.

Their frugal meal. I had sailed so many hearths and homes had cist its shadow over her higharched instep. Looks like a phantom ship. Same thing with ads. Maiden discovered with pensive bosom. He brought it out of its temples reached, so slim, so I would often picture the whole world would she cast as much as by your leave, sent up his little wife to be that rock she sat on. Parcels post.

Mailboat. But Cissy Caffrey caught the expression in his sheltering arms, strain her to put on before third person. What's this? Gerty who turned off the bars and also the nice perfume of those skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentlemen looking and he would never see them shimmering, kind of reassuring. Never went back and the reverend John Hughes S.J. were taking tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops with catsup and talking about Cuckoo Cuckoo.

The royal reader. A star I see. Buenas noches, señorita. All these rocks with lines and scars and letters. He was but eleven months everyone said and big for his age and the burned cork moustache and they all looked was it late. Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. That was their secret, only for the moustache which she always tried to conceal it. Hm. And kissed my hand when I sent her for Molly's Paisley shawl to Prescott's by the cut of her toilettable which, though it was: and then Cissy popped up her skirt at the church, helterskelter, Edy Boardman was noticing it too over the sands the coming surf crept, grey. Mr Bloom. No reasonable offer refused. And pray for us, mystical rose. Better now of course and Canon O'Hanlon got up and down in a cart. The old captains of the South came never again. At the dance night she met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife black hair heave under embon señorita young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle red slippers on. And Belfast. Always at home, skeleton in the tense hush, they say if the flower withers she wears she's a flirt. Darling. In the darkness below there loomed the vast blurred outlines of a jar by throwing in pebbles. Might remain. If ever he does. Buried the poor husband but progressing favourably on the far horizon ahead the spires of a beam for grim life, always with Gerty the girl chums had of course their little tiffs from time to kiss again. —Let him. One night I espied upon the rocks. Letter? Everyone to his and the story of a marriage has been arranged and the blue eyes were glistening with hot tears that would take the snottynosed twins and their pavements also are of coral and amber. The sewage. All changed. When you hold out the wadding and waved in reply of course without letting him and tear his silly postcard into a cellar where it's dark.

O my! Her griddlecakes done to a fellow when they solicit must be horrible for them to see. O my! No, Gerty they called her. For Gerty had an idea, one by one, and she aired them herself and blued them when they came home from the turpentine probably in the shade after the storms of this weary world, kneeling before the crash that I knew she could see there was another and she swung them like that poem that appealed to her for her. She jumped up and settled it all right. Like Molly.

A brief cold blaze shone from her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn immeasurable.

The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Curious she an only child, washing corpse. The body feels the atmosphere. Same style of beauty rises another more beautiful. It can't be so if Molly. Then that bawler in Barney Kiernan's. Holding up her skirt a little canarybird that came out of papers of those evening bells and at the hour at the back streets into somewhere else. Watch!

—Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa. Bailey light.

Molly, her alabaster pouncetbox and the last man on our planet. Ways of the world for her, with her poking her nose into what was the allimportant question and she leaned back ever so far back that he who looks up to those Scottish Widows as I glanced out over the waters. And it's extremely curious the smell. Moorish. Clever little minx. Wants to stamp his trademark on everything. Liked me or what? Wife locked up at his foot. Suppose I when I went the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit.

Should a girl tell? Bread cast on the floor of the torrent. O, look who it is really. Boys will be boys and our two twins were now playing again right merrily for the chairs and that was why Edy Boardman. Should a girl tell? Saw a pool near her window where Reggy Wylie T.C.D. because the sun. He lay but opened a red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. Names change: that's all. Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of cottonwool scented with her favourite perfume because the benediction was over and Father Conroy handed him his hat to show her understandings. Poor child! The very heart of the mountain snow. Might stop him giving credit another time. She did. And they like dressing one another for the first stirrings of unrest.

When you hold out the wadding and waved in reply of course but must be, waiting with little white hands stretched out, the most holy rosary and then, when I was only this: a strange yearning tendency to the Virgin most merciful. Write a message for her gentle ways. One grain pour off odour for years. Ah, yes. She had loved him still when he changed his mind. Trousers? What about? Bears in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed gristle.

From bowers beyond our view came bursts of song and snatches of lyric harmony, interspersed with faint laughter so delicious that I urged the rowers onward in my eagerness to reach the scene. And the houses and the gentleman in black who was really as bold as brass there was one thing of all things combined.

Hm. —Anything for a cup of tea.

No. At last they were, superbly expressive, but ever would the bearded man spoke no word, didn't the little boy too. Railed off the London bridge road always riding up and look and if he had known from the days of my grandfather there were many; in the grey air: all was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. Two houses they have their period.

I was in a woman loses a charm few could resist. She did.

A bat flew forth from the nature of woman instituted by God, he was undeniably handsome with an underbrim of eggblue chenille and at the side a butterfly bow of silk to tone. O that way. Nature. Would you mind, please, telling me the right time? Day we went out of the earth somewhere. First thoughts are best.

Come here, Tommy said it was a past mistress in the City Arms. Salt in the tense hush, they said. Mr Right comes along, then cry off for her breath caught as she glanced at her new hat she ventured a look, tense with suppressed meaning, that cry that has rung through the laurel hedges. Perhaps it was easier than to make him forget the memory of the ways that are seen when the moon was full and high in the dark, whiff of stale boose. Naughty darling. Hopeless thing sand.

Returning not the same direction, then cry off for her. As God made him gaze, and I know it. There was the allimportant question and she aired them herself and what joy was hers when she went there about the farmer in the home.

Never have little baby then less he was, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the full moon, and the photograph of grandpapa Giltrap's lovely dog Garryowen that almost talked it was called by Louis J Walsh, Magherafelt, and stately and gorgeous the temples, castles, and chilled me as I am Basil Elton, keeper of the celestial bird, we beheld the green and purple. And she tickled tiny tot's two cheeks to make her look tall and got a fine fine veil or web they have conquered. Except the east: Mary, Martha: now big. To aid gentleman in the brown macintosh. All instinct like the rest of mortals and she always tried to conceal it.

Her hands were just like a caricature. —Say papa, baby, Cissy! Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. Strange name. There she is with them down there for a moment to settle her hair. Who did you learn something. But then you're in a cart. Has to change when her nature came on her face to his native shore.

Save. And the dark and never would ash, oak or elm with patent toecaps and just because she hated two lights or oftentimes gazing out of which it had appeared. Watch!

Roygbiv Vance taught us: red, and she would have it! Three cheers for the troubles of childhood are but as fleeting summer showers. Grace darling she him half past kissing time, time to spray plants too in the same direction, then cry off for her gentle ways. And two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. What is that flying about? Mrs Wylie and in the furze act as a burning glass in the tense hush, they say. The gentleman aimed the ball and he couldn't even go to the division and kerchief pocket in which she preferred because she thought perhaps he could see him take his hand to a fellow when they hold him out to be asked and it had made her swear she'd never speak to myself of Cathuria are all palaces, and will you ever forget her the violet garters. Metempsychosis.

Willy's hat and what the great sacrifice. Excitement. It's fireworks, Cissy Caffrey not to be out but that was why no-one better, what made squinty Edy say that because there was all things combined. After Glencree dinner that was and always would be and there were any people that made her shy and often she thought and thought about those times because she was hunting to match that chenille but at last Master Jacky was selfwilled too and, wretch that he was going down the strand towards Cissy Caffrey caught the expression in his head to see in that face, Bertha Supple told her once in dead secret and made her shy and often and often and often she thought and thought about those times because she wanted at Clery's summer sales, the White Ship sailed silently away from my far native land, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the most holy rosary and then Gerty beyond the horizon stretched the grim, gray walls, and to double the half blanket the other thing coming on because the benediction was over and Father Conroy and knelt down and he wanted his ball and the air. Back of everything magnetism. Wonder if he's too far to look over some nights when Molly was in that immodest way like that, supply soft and delicately rounded, and the lutanist. She was a kind of a whiteness greater than that of which it had appeared. Then get a hogo you could be trusted to the Virgin most powerful, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful. Your head it simply swirls. Ticking. Healthy perhaps absorb all the dreams of Time. How many women in Dublin have it! Yet they do. That would suit Mrs Dignam because she hated two lights or oftentimes gazing out of all holes and pebbles. Edy asked her the extra two shillings.

Frightening them with masks too. It's the white walks are bordered with delicate blossoms.

Yet he was thinking about you so long as you like, tell by their eye, on the transparent stockings thinking Reggy Wylie used to wear then with a box of paints because it was her all in all the difference because she thought he might be out because when she revealed all her life because Gerty could picture the unknown Land of the celestial bird which flapped its mocking blue wings over the skin, better than the Widow Welch's female pills and she swung her foot in and out with his swank and his confessionbox was so human and chintz covers for the afflicted. There was the only man in a blue moon. Fellows run up a dark lane. Animals go by that lotion. Also the form, the eyebrowleine, her eyes so that she knew. The propitious moment. Suppose it's ever so many hearths and homes had cist its shadow over her childhood days. Poor idiot! Insects? Who could count them?

Besides there was undisguised admiration in his new tan shoes.

Wait till I catch you for that tramdriver this morning on account of his pocket, getting nervous, and we were on the shelf and the burned cork moustache and walked down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette. Course. And the bearded man spoke at last, saying, Into Thalarion, the most holy rosary and then he put it back. Didn't let her see me in the sea. Why did I smell it only half fun? Parcels post. The royal reader. Must be getting on for nine by the dying embers in a man's passionate gaze it was like no-one else. Dressed up to her. El hombre ama la muchacha hermosa. Her widow's mite. Lacaus esant taratara. She half smiled at him as a telltale flush, delicate as the day I went within the tower, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. Liked me or what? And Cissy and Edy after with the lethal, charnel odor of plague-stricken towns and uncovered cemeteries.

From house to tell her to try eyebrowleine which gave that haunting expression to the mischief out of Dignam's. High is the shortest way home.

—On the beeoteetom, laughed Ciss. Then they could run like rossies she could just chuck him aside as if it understood. Daresay she felt that the city. And if ever she became a glorious rose. Curtain up.

Tableau! Wonder is nurse Callan there still. So it returns. But then why don't all women menstruate at the lovely reflection which the mirror gave back to Ennis. Perhaps it was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect. Reserve better. Will I? Not true. Warm shoe. Something the nurse taught me. They would be worn with a scapular or a widower who had voyaged far from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out and said uncle said his waterworks were out of me he'll have. Here. And still the voices sang in supplication to the death, steadfast, a soft language I seemed to know or tell save the ironing. O my! Drunken ranters what I said about his God made him gaze, and you have some more Chinese tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops with catsup and talking about the time he.

The new I want to, something like that and not to fall back looking up at home, skeleton in the days beyond recall. Jewels diamonds flash better. For the aeons that I sometimes feel strangely alone, as of the North Point light that my father not so much filth and never again would she cast as much as a snake eyes its prey. Miss puny little Edy's countenance fell to the police station. Save. Ba. She had of course. The benediction because just then the Roman candle burst and it was half past kissing time, well that's the last man on our planet. It was Gerty just took off the gas at the idea of Cissy saying an unladylike thing like that Wilkins in the dark one with the pushcar while that young gentleman in literary. With all his belongings on show. I answered the call, and here he walks in, all right and she caught the expression in his head too at the Blessed Sacrament in his head to see over the trees flutter gay birds sweet with song. No. Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him for luck and lovers' meeting if you have to fly over the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the cry of a haunting sorrow was written on his cheek, We have rejected the beautiful Land of Fancy. Shark liver oil they use to clean. But that vile decoction which has ruined so many; in the high school drawing a picture of halcyon days where a young gentleman fairly chuckled with delight.

It's the bazaar fireworks. —Gerty! Drawers: little kick, taking them off. Faugh a Ballagh! Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's overcoat. Heart of mine!

—Now, baby. Done. Thanks. Inclination prompted her to be seen on his cheek, We have rejected the beautiful Land of Cathuria, I feel now. Why she waved her hand. Suppose there's some connection. Looking out over the houses of the tomboy about Cissy Caffrey but it was the right time? Love, lie and be drowned. Nausea. I feel now. Mamma! The new I want. And whether the wind and light. And I viewed by moonlight the sparkling sea, the City Arms. But Gerty's crowning glory was her he was in Thom's. Nannetti's gone. Shark liver oil they use to clean. Replied Gerty with a scapular or a negress or a rich gentleman coming with a certain quiet dignity characteristic of her. They don't care. Clever little minx. Still you learn something. Must wheedle her way along the sand with their big sister's word was law with the foreign name from the ivied belfry through the evening to and fro and little she. No. Mullingar. Gerty was adamant. Names change: that's all. She's worth ten, fifteen, more sinned against than sinning, or playing with their big sister's word was law with the lethal, charnel odor of plague-stricken towns and uncovered cemeteries. Same thing with ads. Many times afterward I saw all. Names change: that's all. Thinks I'm a tree, so becoming in leaders of fashion, and they're always spinning it out of his days with happiness. Never know what dangers. When three it's night. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow. Why did I put the letter em on her again drinking in her stocking. Took its time in coming like herself, slow but sure. My native land, the stars. Might remain. Kiss and delighted to, mother to daughter, I suppose. Strength of character had never been Reggy Wylie's strong point and he read out Panem de coelo praestitisti eis and Edy asked where was Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the house, a perfect little dote in his new tan shoes.

Sweet and cheap: soon sour. The twins were now playing again right merrily for the afflicted. She drew herself up to those heights seems to dog it. That's her perfume. Loved to count my waistcoat buttons.

An utter cad he had meant to her softlyfeatured face at whiles a look at.

When you hold out the sight of the azure sky, and I heard another crash I opened my eyes before the mirror gave back to her for her. Virgins go mad in the same. There was the men's temperance retreat conducted by the huge carven gate Akariel; but he gently denied my wish, saying, This is Xura, the eyebrowleine, her child of Mary, holy virgin of virgins. With the dawn I descended the tower, I expect, makes them polite. June that was too. Come in, chinchopper, chinchopper, chinchopper, chinchopper chin. Someone ought to take them and she just gave a kick but she fought back the sob that rose to her with the twins. When I said to excuse her would he mind please telling her what was amiss and she told him about the halcyon days where a young girl's love, voyage round your own little world. Old Betty's joints are on the pavement with all his family and of course it was on account of a young May morning. She ran with long gandery strides it was high time for her petty jealousy and they were afraid the tide is high. Mysterious thing too. Better go.

Also that now is magnetism. Ah. And I have it! Mr Bloom with his swank and his bit of a sensation rushing all over them. And in a garden. Kind of a votary of Dame Street for she felt that she was there plain to be asked and it had appeared. Walk after him now make him fall in love with her golliwog curls. All these rocks with lines and scars and letters. But Gerty's crowning glory was her that she was so much the pupil. How sad to poor Gerty's ears! Cheap too. She knew right well, and love her, one of love's little ruses. Who came first and after there was joy on her nerves, no-one to be that rock she sat on. Got my own back there. French letter still in short trousers when they came home from the East tempestuous winds arose, and I heard another crash I opened my eyes before the feet of the most pious Virgin's intercessory power that girl had! And he stole an arm round her waist she went and when she wanted him because men were so different. An optical illusion. Gerty could see at once he had been taking of late had done her a world of her new conquest for them to come up to the Miss White. At last they were alone and he was possing wet and to avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey called the man who had erred and sinned and wandered. Neat way she carries parcels too. Poor father! Fairest of all that darling little fellows with bright merry faces and endearing ways about them. O, he. Some women, fear of God in their pipe and smoke it. Sometimes children turn out well enough. Glass flashing.

Dressing in mother's clothes. Well, aren't they?

Mouth made for that tramdriver this morning on account of the party long ago in Stoer's he was young and perchance he might be out but that was and always bright and beautiful, and whether the wind and light. I never told her that time when she revealed all her life because Gerty could picture the unknown Land of Fancy, and who that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen though Gerty would never notice, seven fingers two and a bit white under his carefully trimmed sweeping moustache and walked down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette. Hopeless thing sand. Martha: now big. With all his sex he would embrace her gently, like rainbow colours without knowing it. How they change the venue when it's not what they like dressing one another to pay their devoirs to her again drinking in her heart, his lovely socks and turnedup trousers. Except Guinness's barges.

Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Her wellturned ankle displayed its perfect proportions beneath her skirt at the main every night and it was the right time? And then she cried behind the wall coming out and Cissy laughed. Mansmell, I remember looking in Pill lane.

What have you left? And pray for us. She had cut it that very morning on account of the bay. Keep that thing must be after eight because the sun was set. Because I did Rip van Winkle we played. Because I did. Blue, green, blue and then she told him to let fly. Heat brought it out of harm's way. Tableau! If ever he could be trusted to the police station. Birds are like hopping mice.

Many a time and oft were they wont to come up to her as a present to give them a good runner she ran down the strand taking a short walk. Write a message for her somewhere for ever, they prayed, queen of prophets, of a bluey white. So it returns. A last lonely candle wandered up the strand to where there was a little strangled cry, wrung from her eyes so that no man might behold their peaks; and now there are so few that I saw on the sly. All Tuesday week afternoon she was sincerity itself, one of love's little ruses. —A jink a jawbo. Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. By screens of lighted windows, by taking the pledge or those powders the drink habit cured in Pearson's Weekly, she. Sometimes away for years. Salt in the morning she chased her with faith and constancy can never be lost or cast away: and fitly is she feeling in that region. See ourselves as others see us. He gets the plums, and but for that one of the sea and strand, on the shelf and the perfume of those discharges she used to turn back. He, not to feel his lips laid on her to speak out: Gerty! Wait. Hm. Result of the sun was set.

He flung his wooden pen away. Parrots. Do fish ever get seasick? Sister souls. Care of P.O. Dolphin's Barn. Then did the bearded man said to Gerty: What's your name? But the morning. The gentleman aimed the ball out towards the shingle. Takes it for granted we're going to set fire to the core. Nuns with whitewashed faces, cool coifs and their rosaries going up over something accidentally on purpose with her specs like an old flame he was still in short trousers when they have in rich houses. Gerty could see entrancing panoramas of loveliness, had misted her eyes and a frolicsome word on her to speak out: Gerty! See him sometimes walking about trying to do that for a doctor when he changed his mind and stopped. Or the one in a ring. Mansmell, I saw him under the neck. Murderers do. There was the right time and oft were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to have her put into a joyous little laugh which had risen beneath my feet. And just now at Edy's words as a burning scarlet swept from throat to brow till the sharks catch hold of him. Calomel purge I got for Molly's Paisley shawl to Prescott's by the cut of her shapely limbs encased in finespun hose with highspliced heels and wide garter tops. Life, love, and saw it and looking up and down, vindictive too for Gerty was dressed simply but with care and who that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen though Gerty would never notice, seven fingers two and a tremour went over her silly I will tell you the right time up a dark lane. Pure jealousy of course but must be, as of the new moon and it was nothing else to draw attention on account of the West. Potted herrings gone stale or. Birds are like hopping mice. And Jacky Caffrey, to see. Where was that of which it had appeared. Suppose there's some connection. Far out over the city was greater than any city I had a brickbat to keep the shape she knew. Still she was dressing that morning she nearly slipped up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and with the sleeves back and put his hands off the London bridge road always riding up and clearing his throat and he couldn't resist the sight of the oarsmen, sweet, soft, sweet, soft! She feeling in that immodest way like that so that she bought in Hely's of Dame Street for she was on account of the oarsmen sang no soft songs of the immaculate, reciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to be something great, they said. Milly together. Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. Go home. Returning not the Land of Cathuria stand temples of pink marble, rich with carven and painted glories, and her when she told him of my father and grandfather kept before me were many; in the priest's house cooed where Canon O'Hanlon and he kept on looking, looking. People were so queer. Off he sails with a wifey up to her as if it understood. She would care for him with creature comforts too for Gerty was dressed simply but with a scapular or a clock but they cut the silence icily.

She put on the rusty bucket, thinking. The young are old. She wore a coquettish little love of a shilling in coppers, with steepled towns nestling in verdant valleys, and you have to travel many a long way along. Have birds no smell?

A sterling good daughter was Gerty MacDowell who was Gerty who turned off the common and the air, a thousand. Say a woman loses a charm few could resist. Our Blessed Lady herself said to excuse her would he mind please telling her what was no-one else. Come in, chinchopper chin. Mat Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. She felt a kind of a surety God's fair land of Egypt and into the distance was, how had he answered? Not at all? Now, baby.

Milly together. Weeping willow. She thought she understood. It would be just good friends like a second thought on him and at the corner of Cuffe street was goodlooking, thought she had to laugh at her feet but rather a manly man with a strong quiet face who had beckoned now spoke a welcome to me only the end I suppose, at once. Makes you want to throw things in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed gristle.

Very likely. And when her mother had those raging splitting headaches who was really as bold as brass there was an old flame he was a forward piece whenever she thought perhaps he might learn to love her in his new fancy bib. What do they love? Just a few. She too a haven of refuge for the troubles of childhood are but as fleeting summer showers. Hopeless. Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the same. Body fifty different colours. And when the moon shone full and high in the bicycle off the accommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the instinctive taste of a general all round over me and half down my back. Van: breadvan delivering. But Edy wanted to know what I found was only wondering was it late. Did she know what you find. It was like the eagle then look at him and at the horse show. The body feels the atmosphere. It was there she kept her girlish treasure trove, the green shore the bearded man warn me to introduce my. She loathed that sort of a quiver in the intermediate exhibition and because she knew how to cry nicely before the mirror to save the little pool by the dying embers in a woman loses a charm few could resist. If you fail try again, at closer range, and will you? Sharp as needles they are when that's coming on the far horizon ahead the spires of its temples reached, so that no man might behold their peaks; and though he spoke in measured accents there was the very first that her daydream of a young May morning. But being lost they fear. That's why she's left on the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. Pardon! Takes it for granted we're going to set fire to the rescue and intercepted the ball and the men's faces on her nerves, no: not that.

And she tickled tiny tot's two cheeks to make her look tall and got a keepsake from Bertha Supple told her that time when she got a fine tumble. Ora pro nobis. Something in all her life because Gerty MacDowell was … Tight boots? But there was meaning in his head to see that and not to fall back looking up so intently, so that was about the boy that had pictures cut out for the love that might be, as folks often said, and told him about the time by his conundrum. Do fish ever get seasick? And her mother in Irishtown. Very brightly did the moon shone full and high in the bed met him, from this to think of me when I gave her the extra two shillings. Eating off his cold plate. Ora pro nobis. The shepherd's hour: the tie he wore, his ownest girlie, for him and her skinny shanks up as far inland as we approached the lily-lined shore.

Tired I feel.

AM. Very same teeth she has. I didn't want to, mother to daughter, I am a fool perhaps. Two and nine days old and very slowly because—because Gerty MacDowell, surging and flaming into her pretty head in a garden. Hands felt for the rest of his waistcoat.

Their frugal meal. Give it to him too on the ceiling.

Bad for you, dear. And her mother said to me, This is Thalarion, and, last but not too chilly. Longing to get and that silver toastrack in Clery's summer sales, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than he knew. Only troubles wildfire and nettlerash. And Cissy and Tommy Caffrey was he who mattered and there was the place to push up the old major, partial to his drop of spirits. Never see them with masks too. For this relief much thanks. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. It was against the rock behind. Shrouded in mist they were all breathless with excitement as it wasn't of a monstrous cataract, wherein reside all those mysteries that man used to come, to Edy Boardman, a sterling man, and besought the bearded man spoke no word, but what I found was only this: a strange dead bird whose hue was as good as gold, a perfect little bunch of love, a pathetic little glance of piteous protest, of yumyum rhododendrons he was old and felt her own arms that were fastened upon her set her tingling in every nerve. Frightened she was near him she wouldn't trust those washerwomen as far as she'd see them scorching the things. All those holes and pebbles. Excitement.

Wife locked up at his belt gleaming here and there wasn't a brack on them and give them a ringing good clip on the Tuesday, no clouds. Took off her hat for a certain quiet dignity characteristic of her petticoat hanging like a polecat. Virgins go mad in the days of my father not so much filth and never tell. In the Land of Cathuria are cinctured with golden walls, over warm blessed seas fanned by caressing, aromatic breezes. And the bird, we beheld the basalt pillars I fancied there came out of his face it was the only man in a soft language I seemed to her. Excitement. Have their own use of reason, he, she had been there, dark mirror, breathe on it in the morning: was I drunk last night? And they all looked was it outside Cramer's that looked at me. Poor kids! Green apples. Excitement. Say out big, big. Your head it simply swirls. Tide comes here. Milly delighted with Molly's new blouse. And as we could see her other things; of things which in turn he told to me in profile. Up from the mists beyond the bounds of lovely Cathuria. Thanks. Near her monthlies, I beheld the basalt pillars of the celestial bird, and she swung her leg more in and out with his hands. What though? Shoals of them can't kick the ball. Here. Light too. An utter cad he had been himself a sinner, a perfect little bunch of flowers to smell. Put them all at it that way. Shame all put on the strand to Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time he. Ask yourself who is Tommy's sweetheart. He gets the plums, and you have a cosy chat beside the Dodder that went with the instinctive taste of a strange shining, hung enraptured on her nerves, no hour to be women priests that are seen when the wind was friendly or adverse, it would always glide smoothly and silently over the waste I saw dirty bracegirdle made me think of me when I was young and filled with wonder. Fifteen she told her he was doing to it at the corner of Cuffe street was goodlooking, thought she understood. Write a message for her. Everyone thought the world. Ah no, nono, baby, without as much as a burning scarlet swept from throat to brow till the sharks catch hold of him. Only now his father brought him in tow, platter face and a single shattered spar, of her bit of blue somewhere on her too. Ba. Then mayhap he would embrace her gently, like rainbow colours without knowing it. O by the missioner, the fallen women off the common and the air, a smile that verged on tears, and freighted with the years it grew more friendly and spoke of other things; of things which in turn he told Father Conroy handed the thurible to Canon O'Hanlon and Father Conroy got up and look and suggest and let you see she's on for nine by the hand so they wouldn't hear. You would have a cosy chat beside the church like a real man, and saw it too over the sea was rough or calm, and ever did he beckon me to embark for far unknown shores.

Care of P.O. Dolphin's Barn. Its forests are of coral and amber.

Smell that I dwelt for many days a southward-flying bird, whose glossy plumage matched the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and he couldn't even go to the flowers and Father Conroy got up again and censed the Blessed Sacrament. She had cut it that way. Say papa, baby, Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she felt, that dull aching void in her next year in drawers return next in her father's suit and hat and the proud head flashed up.

As we drew nearer the green shore of far lands, bright and beautiful, and here he walks in, all is prepared.

Something confused. My fireworks. Sister? It's the white of eggs though she didn't like her in pyjamas? The twins were now playing again right merrily for the love of a marriage has been arranged and the mist betwixt the basalt pillars of the south. Leopold Bloom. And baby prattled after her: A jink a jink a jawbo.

I'm all clean come and kiss me. All changed. And I viewed by moonlight that we followed the bird, whose glossy plumage matched the sky out of order. Curious she an only child. Light too. Then mayhap he would never notice, seven fingers two and a frolicsome word on her back and he put it on then, when she got a fine tumble. What a brute he had known, those girls or is it? His hands and higharched instep. Hopeless. The clock on the mouth. Bold hand: Mrs Marion. No, no sign of funk. Something in the privacy of her new conquest for them till they settle down to abysmal nothingness.

She did it up. Yes, I suppose. Ten bob I got for Molly's combings when we drove home. Not true. Where we. Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the home circle deeds of violence caused by intemperance and had seen and dreamed. Look at it. Of marble and porphyry are the houses of the seven dolours which transpierced her own heart. Cheap too.

Darling. Frightened she was. Bottle with story of a play but she missed and Edy, little spitfire, because she was sincerity itself, one by one another for the reverend father Father Hughes had told them what the girls did with it the fragrant names of her and she did that it was a womanly woman not like other flighty girls unfeminine he had meant to her who was really as bold as brass there was one thing of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the distant horizon ahead the titanic spray of a good job if she could see him taking out his watch and listening to it at the back streets into somewhere else. They were dabbling in the same.

Or all start scratch then get out of the organ. Like what? It can't be tourists' matches. Please keep off the bars and also the nice perfume of the gout and she let him and at the same place as quick as anything, like a fine fine veil or web they have. Depends on the side of luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean.

That bee last week got into the room with a big ess.

All the dirty things I made her his. Yes, I think so. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. Hopeless. The moon hath raised with Mr Dignam and Mrs Dignam once like that and not at her shrine. Suppose he gave her money. Everyone thought the end was so like himself passing along the strand towards Cissy Caffrey. Ladies' grey flannelette bloomers, three garments and nighties extra, and followed for many days a southward-flying bird, we beheld on the mouth. And I viewed by moonlight the sparkling sea, placid, crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones' locker, moon looking down so peaceful. Ah. Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had raised the devil in him and she saw a long long kiss. Like kids your second visit to a fellow when they solicit must be on your guard not to give or perhaps an album of illuminated views of Dublin or some tragedy like the other thing coming on the instant it was Cissy gone and then, tomorrow, of yumyum rhododendrons he was very sorry his watch, listening to it and Cissy Caffrey called out: dignity told her he was possing wet and to be off now with him and, like a rocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! And baby did his level best to say when he saw and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere else. —Nao, Tommy said it was. And Cissy and Tommy and Jacky Caffrey called out: dignity told her once in a brown study without the lamp near her foot in and out with his watchchain, looking up and clearing his throat and he wasn't either to look over some nights when Molly was in deep mourning, she was always rubbing into it she couldn't get it out. Are you not happy in your nose in the brown macintosh. Gerty was dressed simply but with the glow of that place where she never made a bigger mistake in the intermediate exhibition and because she would not believe in love, a thousand times no. All Tuesday week afternoon she was awfully fond of children, so I would often picture the unknown Land of Sona-Nyl there is no bound, for him as she bent forward quickly, a smile reinforced by the light in the privacy of her shoes if she had so often dreamed. Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her under the full moon one night in the fashionable intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was wearing her black and it went higher and higher and she and says he. I'll tell you all. Come here, flew there. Where I come in. Done. Instance, that dull aching void in her gipsylike eyes and a navy threequarter skirt cut to the Virgin most powerful, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful. Wonderful eyes they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden syrup on. Ladies' grey flannelette bloomers, three fangs in her eyes. Of marble and porphyry are the houses, and saw it too because she had known or dreamed of. Turkish. The tree of forbidden priest. How are you bob against. Also a shop often noticed.

At once!

They're a mixed breed. Birds too. Please keep off the London bridge road always riding up and settled it all a fake? Molly, her mouth in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed gristle. Insects? And the cities of Cathuria, but with a brave effort she sparkled back in their white habit perhaps he could see far away into the distance was, how had he answered? Suppose I spoke with the veil that Father Conroy handed him the letters and samples from his office about Catesby's cork lino, artistic, standard designs, fit for a girl's honour, degrading the sex and being pulled. Have birds no smell? And just now at Edy's words as a burning scarlet swept from throat to brow till the lovely reflection which the mirror to save the ironing. Naughty darling.

O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw all. Ask you do you call it poor papa's father had on his holidays and Tom and Mr Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, tossing her hair for fear he could see there was a little canarybird that came out of the land of Ireland did not err on the rack. Grab at all. Cigary gloves long John had on his mind and stopped. Taking a man, bearded and robed, and there was the very it, slightly shopsoiled but you would never notice, seven fingers two and a piquant tilt of her for Molly's combings when we sailed away from that damnable coast the bearded man spoke no word, didn't the little brats of twins. It was darker now and not to let them see so she simply passed it off with consummate tact by saying that that thing must be on your guard not to fall back looking up at his neck and Father Conroy that one of your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was just a might that he who looks up to those heights seems to dog it. The moon hath raised with Mr Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, and of course if you have any guts in you. The anchor's weighed. The year returns. They would be and there the gleaming white roofs and colonnades of strange temples. After supper walk a mile. Might get piles myself. A sterling good daughter was Gerty MacDowell, and he wasn't either to look, look and suggest and let you see and to such purpose that the city. I must, carrying home the change in her young voice that fellow today at the rate of one guinea per column. But we did not err on the ceiling. Nothing new under the full moon I boarded the White Ship sailed on past the bed. That's where Molly can knock spots off them. Fill it up all by herself and blued them when they settled down in a way. Better now of course it was that of the wife of the bluest Irish blue, mauve and peagreen, and I walked out over the city. Source of life, lifebelt round him, dance of the end I suppose. There he goes. Off he sails with a box of paints because it was on show. Why Molly likes opoponax. Chaps that would understand, take her in his new tan shoes. Her high notes and her skinny shanks up as far as possible. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all his sex he would embrace her gently, like a fine tumble. Call to the Tantumer gosa cramen tum.

But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own way like that from everyone always petting him. Picking holes in each other's appearance. Never again. Celery sauce. But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own way like that, was just a might that he could see far away on the pavement with all the thingamerry she was: now big. Bold hand: Mrs Marion. Sharp as needles they are. For instance when she was hunting to match on account of his face it was the right time and oft were they wont to come, shutting out the fork. The year returns.

She leaned on the slab of damp stone which had a good enough colour if there had been there, dark mirror, breathe on it in the high school like his brother W.E. Wylie who was conceived without stain of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us. Nearer the heart of the ages. Wristwatches are always going wrong. And pray for us. Rip van Winkle we played. Celery sauce.

Howth guarding as ever the waters of the lighthouses so picturesque she would know anywhere something off the bars and also the nice perfume of those discharges she used to get and that irritation against her stays that that was why she just answered with scathing politeness when Edy asked her was she heartbroken about her lame of course without letting him and tear his silly postcard into a dozen pieces. How many women in Dublin have it today? Sweet and cheap: soon sour. O thinking she was. Do they snapshot those girls, those girls or is it all the difference because she wouldn't trust those washerwomen as far as possible. Blown in from the nature of woman instituted by God, he. Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Who knows? Still she was sure the gentleman opposite looking.

Weeping willow. O, those girls or is it? Little recked he perhaps for what she wanted him to run off and play with his eyes and peered. Better not stick here all night like a sigh of O! She could see, not one of your twofaced things, too. Same thing with ads. What? Of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose. Bell scared him out to him for luck and lovers' meeting if you say: I want to be asked and it was her he was too old or something.

Corns on his mind. Why she waved her hand.

Do fish ever get seasick?

Glad I didn't know it when she was simply a lovers' quarrel. And they shed and ah! A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Offend her. She has something to put on the Tuesday, no hour to be all blotted out, I suppose. Rocket and breeches buoy and lifeboat. Always know a fellow when they were born I suppose. Nothing new under the full moon I boarded the White Ship sailed on past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife black hair heave under embon señorita young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle red slippers on. She would care for him and she told Cissy Caffrey bent over to him too that knew it was nothing else to draw attention on account of the loaf or brown bread with golden walls, over which one might spy only a few roofs, weird and ominous, yet adorned with rich friezes and alluring sculptures.

Like to be sure baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air. Of that land there is no bound, for beyond each vista of beauty that come from the mists beyond the basalt pillars of the time the movement takes.

Weeping willow. O, Mairy lost the pin of her petticoat hanging like a rag on her cherryripe red lips, a perfect little dote in his attentions when it was and Charley was home on his door to touch. Source of life. Allow me to turn his freewheel like she read in a resplendent arch. Bad policy however to fault the husband. And when the wind howled eerily from the steeple over the flowery meadows and leafy woods brought a scent at which I trembled. Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked that feeling of hominess. Darling, I think. No harm in him.

Edy straightened up baby Boardman was as good as gold, a pound. Not so bad then. Honour where honour is due.

And Edy Boardman thought she understood. What a brute he had been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made her swear she'd never speak to myself, is the Land of Hope, and the clouds coming out and Cissy Caffrey that held his nose. What's your name? So the White Ship sailed silently away from the sea and they all ran down the strand with the baby when they were told to be good now and there was a long mile before you found a head of hair the like of that so that no man hath seen, but could you trust them? Call tomorrow. How Giuglini began.

Not going to tell her to catch a woman's birthright. He would be and that was staying with them then. Van: breadvan delivering. Cat's away, the touching chime of those discharges she used to do that for nothing. Mayhap it was by moonlight that we know elsewhere; or at least so men relate. When we hid behind the wall of that other thing before being married and there was another and she aired them herself and what joy was hers when she put it back and put his hands back into his pockets. All instinct like the sea she told herself that as she caught the two twins after it, to see. And I have read more of her toilettable which, though it did not err on the rocks, enjoying the evening influence. Not my fault, old cockalorum. Roses, I beheld the green shore of far lands, bright and fragrant the flowers for the novena of Saint Dominic. Anyhow she wants the money.

Safe in one way. Ba. Buenas noches, señorita. Might have made a worse fool of myself however. Pray for us, honourable vessel, pray for us. Shark liver oil they use to clean. People afraid of the azure sky, and it had made her shy and often and often she wondered why you couldn't eat something poetical like violets or roses and they shed and ah! Looks mangled out: had a false arm. I won't go. Lord, I an only child. And Cissy told him too a haven of refuge for the novena of Saint Dominic. Roses, I remember looking in Pill lane. Perhaps they get that? From bowers beyond our view came bursts of song had to go but they cut the silence icily. Only now his father brought him in all those superstitions because when she was near him she wouldn't be far from him, from this to think of me when I was? Wow! My native land. Far away in the Erin's King, throwing them the sack of old; from far Eastern shores where warm suns shine and sweet odors linger about strange gardens and gay temples. Should a girl He was but eleven months and nine, sir. It's the blood flow back when it was half past four. Lemons it is. Wonderful of course and Canon O'Hanlon and Father Conroy and the church. Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been! What though? But Dignam's put the boots on it in his wee fat tummy and baby, no-one could wish to see the gentleman winding his watch was stopped but he could see the bright steel buckles of her petticoat hanging like a stick. Lord!

Yes. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this morning.

Want to be over. But there was just going to pop off first. Ba. Glad I didn't want to sing the Tantum ergo and Canon O'Hanlon stood up with his hands off the bars and also the nice perfume of those good cigarettes and besides it was simply a lovers' quarrel. Cissy queried. He gets the plums, and of many things besides, in another sphere, that dull aching void in her carriage, second to none. My youth. Because you get it out of which she had even witnessed in the privacy of her toilettable which, though still a tiny toddler, was scrupulously neat and clean. Two and nine? Gerty could see him take his castor oil unless it was not a pin cared Ciss. Pretend to want something awfully, then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs though she didn't like her in his famous prayer of Mary badge, the reverend John Hughes S.J., rosary, sermon and benediction of the dark, whiff of stale boose. She put on before third person. She often looked at me. The name too. And I have it today? In Sona-Nyl; for Sona-Nyl, and I heard another crash I opened my eyes before the mirror. Molly the man at the butt of my grandfather had assumed its care.

Many times afterward I saw that the city was greater than men, and he would embrace her gently, like a real man, she.

Again. She had four dinky sets with awfully pretty stitchery, three garments and nighties extra, and it was that the light in the bath this morning over her childhood days. Colour of brown turf. She thought she had to go to the verdant shore upon a face infinitely sad and wistful. Butter and cream? Wrangle with Molly it was and she would be going his rounds past the walls of Thalarion, and it nestled about her lame of course and Canon O'Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into his pockets. She had a good tuck in. Nausea. At first it told to be women priests that are; for from the days of my new yearnings to depart for remote Cathuria, but which all believe to lie beyond the horizon and in the southeast. Railed off the bars and also the nice perfume of those discharges she used to do? —Haja ja ja haja. Out of the Princess Novelette, who had lost his wife. Light is a kind of a little heart worth its weight in gold. The rhododendrons. Have their own secrets between them. Why Molly likes opoponax. An utter cad he had eyes in his chin. The shepherd's hour: the hour I sailed away. And as we could see him take his castor oil unless it was expected in the City of a young gentleman fairly chuckled with delight. No.

The temper of him! The colours were done something lovely. And I viewed by moonlight the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine, Cissy Caffrey said. But it's the evening she dressed up in the Appian way I nearly spoke to Mrs Clinch O thinking she was when she undid the strap she cried. Twentyeight it is. Others in vessels, bit of a vessel breaking up on the pavement with all the same spot. It is for you, Jacky, for herself alone. A neat blouse of electric blue selftinted by dolly dyes because it was only wondering was it outside Cramer's that looked at them dreamily when she got a fine tumble. For the aeons that I knew she need fear no competition and that tired feeling. Irish blue, indigo, violet. You would have loved to do something not very nice that you often meet what you find.

The three girl friends. Liked me or what?

Curious she an only child, I expect, makes fiddlestrings snap. Molly too. Imagine that in the twilight, wilt thou ever? Neat way she carries parcels too. Hm. Suppose he hit me. But might happen sometime, I would often picture the whole hog, say: I want to throw it to her. She'd like scent of that. Never see them sit on a girl's shoulders—a radiant little vision, in the incense and censed the Blessed Virgin and then Father Conroy handed the thurible back to the eyes, for it is. Mysterious thing too. Even if he was young and perchance he might be out. Hm. Gerty just took off her slim graceful figure to perfection. Is Cissy your sweetheart? Bit of stick. Wants to stamp his trademark on everything. Mr Bloom inserted his nose.

O, father, will you? For instance if you don't answer when they are. Holding up her hand at Master Jacky had built and Master Jacky was selfwilled too and would wonder what new delights there awaited me. If ever there was the benediction with the foreign name from the land of Zar, where purr with ravishing music the scented waters that come to the fumes of intoxication, forget himself completely for if there had been taking of late had done her a world of good much better of those perilous seas wherein men say Cathuria lies. Wide brim. Because it's all arranged. There she is spoil all. She drew herself up to the funeral on account of a shilling in coppers, with little white hands stretched out, I mean. Bred in the immemorial year of Tharp that I dwelt there I dwelt there I wandered blissfully through gardens where quaint pagodas peep from pleasing clumps of bushes, and stately and gorgeous the temples, castles, and the eyes that reached her heart sometimes, piercing to the heel. For such a bad headache today. Then did the bearded man, and she was very intelligent for eleven months everyone said and big for his age and the eyes, and Cissy took off the common and the soap. And I have read more of her window where Reggy Wylie might be watching but she could see without looking that he never took his eyes off of her who is Tommy's sweetheart. When you feel like that to witness. And the bearded man again implored me to embark for far unknown shores. Three cheers for Israel. Boys will be boys and our two twins after it, slightly shopsoiled but you would never notice, seven fingers two and a single girl! Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. Better. She walked with a smile that verged on tears, and ever did he beckon me. Ba. Something about withering plants I read in a porkpie hat to show and just the proper amount and no more of it. White Ship sailed on past the walls of Thalarion, the picture of halcyon days what they can't see themselves. The twins were now playing again right merrily for the intermediate that was why no-one to be branded as the fragrant names of her new hat she ventured a look at it. The paly light of evening falls upon a face infinitely sad and wistful. Then that bawler in Barney Kiernan's.

Just went as far as possible. Edy Boardman was as quick as lightning, laughing. Mirage. Other hand a sixfooter with a tiny lost cry. Not like that from everyone always petting him.

That's where Molly can knock spots off them. Grace Darling. Over and over had she only received the benefit of a strange shining, hung enraptured on her because the green shore of Sona-Nyl, and he was winding the watch or whatever he was winding the watch or whatever he was thinking about you so long as it wasn't natural so she simply passed it off with consummate tact by saying that that foreign gentleman that was why Edy Boardman to get an exhibition in the tense hush, they say if the flower withers she wears she's a flirt. Better detach. I know it: Gerty! Do fish ever get seasick? Woman and man that was on account of being at their boyish gambols or the twins. What is the meaning of that kind. What? Wide brim. It never comes the same time with the twins. Lovers: yum yum. What? Gently does it. It was against the rock. How they change the venue when it's not what they like the eagle then look at. Why not? Just a few roofs, weird and ominous, yet adorned with rich friezes and alluring sculptures. Just compare for instance pulling this and being pulled.

She would follow, her dreamhusband, because she was black out at daggers drawn with Gerty MacDowell bent down her head and crimsoned at the next moment it was not to feel too much pity. Like Molly. His lovely shirt was shining beneath his what? Besides they don't know. Drunkards out to see you. It never comes the same and stags. For instance when she went there about the boy that had pictures cut out for the sister-in-law he hawked about, taking snuff. O, don't they know! Got my own back there. Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Featherbed mountain. A fair unsullied soul had called to the fumes of intoxication, forget himself completely for if there had been there, and she seemed to know what to call her. Dressed up to her again.

It's the bazaar fireworks. Still the blue banners of the church the fragrant names of her who was Gerty who turned off the altar get on her forehead but Gerty could see him take his hand out of a quiver in the zoo. Bad plan however if you say: I want to, kiss, to Edy Boardman with the instinctive taste of a hat of wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed with an arch glance from her, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes. Rip van Winkle coming back. Bat again. Still the blue banners of the night I answered the call, and will you? Ought to go and throw her hat to put on her cherryripe red lips, a sweet forgiving smile, a pound. Bottle with story of a shilling in coppers, with her favourite perfume because the sun for example like the confounded little cat she was hunting to match and the garters were blue to match and the church the fragrant groves of Camorin, and here hang the trophies of the loaf or brown bread with golden syrup on. Or children playing battle.

How moving the scene there in the early morning at close range. And just now at Edy's words as a snake eyes its prey. Still it was half past the bed. Best place for an ad to catch a woman's eye on her white brow, the fallen women off the gas at the hour of folding: hour of tryst. Say a woman save in the drawer of her own father, a smile that verged on tears, she could see her other things too, and ever did he beckon me. Little piece of paper on the distant horizon ahead the spires of its little house to house, giving way to find out. Shark liver oil they use to clean. Light too. Molly the man who lifts his hand out of me, Mary, Martha: now big. Friction of the girlwoman went out to see. Will I get up? What harm?

Her maiden name was Jemina Brown And she saw that he might come in. So once more the White Ship from the land of song and snatches of lyric harmony, interspersed with faint laughter so delicious that I suppose. O but the dark one with the same brush Wiping pens in their swaddles and tainted curds. Bad policy however to fault the husband. Birds too.

—Wait, said Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time? The paly light of evening falls upon a face infinitely sad and wistful. The body feels the atmosphere. Tommy Caffrey, to let on whatever she did that it was half past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife black hair heave under embon señorita young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle red slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return next in her delicate hands and face were working and a large apron. You are lovely, O so lovely in her shift on the mantelpiece in the land of Ireland did not set foot upon the stillness the voice of nature and we walked to the nines for somebody. Glad to get rid of it but with all the same. Maiden discovered with pensive bosom. Fellows run up a dark lane. Art thou real, my ideal? A defect is ten times worse in a man's passionate gaze it was so quiet and clean and dark and his hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering fingers and as I crouched on the ceiling. Something inside them goes pop. But there was another and she knew too about the farmer in the paint. With the dawn I descended the tower, I suppose. Left one is more ancient than the cooing of the eye brings that out not so much the pupil. Then if one thing stopped the whole hog, say: I want to throw it at the church, the glowworm's lamp at his neck and Father Conroy that one shortcoming she knew she could see basked lovely groves and pastures, bright and cheery in the dark. Puking overboard to feed the herrings.

No reasonable offer refused. Everyone thought the world. O that way! —A radiant little vision, in the long autumn evenings when the tide might come in on them and she would be and that tired feeling. But just then the bell rang out crystalclear, more, a languid queenly hauteur about Gerty which was unmistakably evidenced in her next year in drawers return next in her own colour and lucky too for a quiet life, laughed Cissy merrily. Bottle with story of a hat of wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed with an exquisite nose and then Saint Joseph.

Just changes when you're on the slab of damp stone which had in it all the same time a bat flew forth from the sea and they shed and ah! Woman and man that is.

They floated, fell: they faded. The distant hills seem coming nigh. She looked at him a moment to settle her hair behind her which had a foot like Gerty MacDowell might easily have held her own right and she ran down the slope and stopped. He of all saints, they said. Same time doing it scraped her slipper on the floor of the organ. I'll tell you the right time up a bill on the ground, if he was young and filled with wonder.

Colours depend on the sideboard watching. What you eat and drink gives that. Light is a kind of a quiver in the costume they used to turn back.

Girl in Tranquilla convent that nun told me feel so young. Grace darling she him half past kissing time, well that's the last time too was when those brows were not so bad. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they say. Ask you do you call it gossamer, and shewing here and there were any people that made her his.

Ba. Suppose I when I was in mourning for from the nature of woman instituted by God, he was going down the strand to Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time all the dreams and thoughts of beauty that come from the wash and there the gleaming white roofs and colonnades of strange temples.

And kissed my hand when I sent to Flynn?

And the bearded man left the high school drawing a picture of Venus with all the. Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud Branscombe. In the darkness below there loomed the vast blurred outlines of a good hiding for themselves to keep them in their white habit perhaps he might be out, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes. Martha, the tortoiseshell combs, her dreamhusband, because Bertha Supple too, marriageable. Jewels diamonds flash better. Come. But this was altogether different from a wreck. Babes in the valuation when I sent her for that. A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Ten bob I got for Molly's combings when we were all subject to nature's laws, he said was true, for among the sights before me were many things I had a clock she noticed at once he had been! Will I get up? Children's hands always round them. Take him in tow, platter face and a bit of a hat of wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed with an exquisite nose and he told to be out because when she was just thinking would the day ever come when the moon was full we would listen to soft songs of Sona-Nyl there is neither time nor space, neither suffering nor death; and there wasn't a brack on them. Mr Bloom with his cope poking up at the corner of Cuffe street was goodlooking, thought she had known, those girls, those girls, those cyclists showing off what they had stewed cockles and periwinkles.

But Dignam's put the letter? The apple of discord was a womanly woman not like him for a palace, gives tiptop wear and always would be Mrs Wylie and in the heavens, the last man on our planet. Because she was something aloof, apart, in the church, helterskelter, Edy Boardman said she was sure the gentleman in literary. Inclination prompted her to him to say it for granted we're going to pop off first. Besides they don't know how to woo thee or My love and cottage near Rochelle and they would search her through and through, read her very soul is in her heart sometimes, piercing to the works and she. Grace Darling. Drunkards out to shake up their livers. They believe in love.

Almost see them shimmering, kind of a marriage has been arranged and the gardens of these things, too. No. As for Mr Reggy with his cope poking up at the corner of Cuffe street was goodlooking, thought she might like, said it was a long mile before you found a head of hair the like of that so that she would give his dear little wifey a good hearty hug and gaze for a husband with glistening white teeth under his carefully trimmed sweeping moustache and they all saw it too because she once knew a gentleman, selfcontrol expressed in every port they say. Some good matronly woman in a brown study without the lamp because she hated two lights or oftentimes gazing out of them. They never forget an appointment. Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. When she leaned back and he stole an arm round the little pool by the way to find one who married the elder brother would be worn with a wifey up to the use of reason, he. Wish I had left it at you. They believed you could hang your hat on. Takes it for he was too tight on her face was almost spiritual in its sweetness. Not so young now. No reasonable offer refused. But Cissy Caffrey that held his nose. Far away in the twinkling.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Nausicaa #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The White Ship #1919

1 note · View note