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the--sad--hatter · 6 years ago

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Bloody Roses - Chapter Two (Bucky x reader)

FANDOM - MARVEL

WARNINGS - SOME BLOOD AND INJURIES, MENTIONS OF NUDITY

SUMMARY - What you thought was a trapped squirrel turned out to be a super soldier in need. It’s not every day an Avenger turns up in your garden, in serious need of help but you deal with it as best as you can.

Masterlist

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The Winter Soldiers absence had strangely left something of a chasm in your chest, an aching void. You were somehow empty and heavier at the same time, carrying the heavy weight of what was missing with every step you took. Everything you did seemed to take longer and had much less reward. It was wholly unlike you to get attached to people, and it never happened this quickly.

People in general were like a loud buzzing in your head, they made your skin feel too tight and your heart beat a little too fast. It wasn’t full blown anxiety, more like a quiet discomfort. It was easily hidden, and usually you ignored it so you could persevere. It actually took you a few days to realise that Bucky hadn’t made you feel uncomfortable at all, he hadn’t triggered that stifled feeling.

There was a strange juxtaposition between your dislike of company and you human need for companionship, it’s why you befriended Othello. So while Bucky hadn’t been around for long, his absence was felt.

Over the next week, that aching chasm numbed though. You went about your day to day life, walking Othello, baking, gardening, painting… Whatever random artistic endeavour you wanted to try out and inevitably abandon in an attempt to keep yourself amused, keep your life going, keep yourself soldiering on instead of just festering away.

Today it was knitting, because you’d seen a youtube video about making blankets from giant wool with just your arms. That had ended spectacularly badly, thpugh Othello had fun. It had however, led to you deciding to try actual knitting, with actual needles and wool. When Othello started barking at the door, you were tangled up in a long strand of periwinkle blue and had resorted to cussing it out in the hope your foul language would free you. Doing a weird twisting move to get free you made your way to the door, pulling it open and peering out.

There were several boxes on the deck with a clipboard resting atop them. You pulled the door open to see John, the delivery guy pretending to be very interested in the bushes that lined the driveway. He did this every time, tried to be subtle about giving you space. You appreciated it, and made sure he knew it with the tip you always left. You signed for the delivery and picked a box up, pushing the others over the threshold with your foot.

As soon as you closed the front door you used your keys to cut through the tape and started unpacking the new books you’d ordered.

“What do you think, is there room in the upstairs hallway for these?” You asked Othello.

He barked and shook his fur out.

“Fair point, maybe by the window seat I keep meaning to build?” You suggested.

“Boof”

“I will so get it done! Right after I build that porch swing.” You gasped, thoroughly offended.

Ultimately, the books stayed in the box, at least for the time being and you went back to trying to *not* stab yourself with a knitting needle. After making the worlds thinnest scarf (“You have fur so I did this on purpose, I didn’t want you to overheat.”) you got frustrated and bored, giving in and curling up on the sofa with your laptop.

The cursor hovered over Microsoft word for a moment while you chewed your lip and tried to bring yourself to click on it but as was the norm lately, you went for Chrome instead. You had just enough dregs of energy to click on Facebook and assure the minimal amount of friends and family who pretended to care that you were in fact, still alive.

You were 100% convinced that the rumours that Facebooks advertising algorithm could read your mind were true because right there at the top of your feed was a news article. Apparently The Avengers had been caught up in another scrape. Before you could catch yourself you clicked on it, quickly scrolling through the article. It was remarkably vague but posturing, so the press didn’t know what The Avengers had actually been doing then. They did know that Earth’s Mightiest had won.

It was strange to thin that you had had one of them on this here couch, life in your hands. And like your thoughts had summoned him, there he was in HD. Pictures didn’t do him any justice. Yes, he was handsome in a photo but it couldn’t capture the tenor of his voice, the glint of light in his eye or the way that despite falling in a river and walking several miles in his own blood, he still smelled divinely sexy.

There was a minute, tiny, very high chance you had developed a lingering crush on the man out of time who had literally stumbled into your life. He was dark, tortured, charming, funny, gorgeous and strong, all strong ingredients in a crush. Most importantly, the strongest factor, guaranteed to make you fall… he was fleeting. He was a feather on the breeze, the rays of light at sunset, the crashing waves of a cerulean sea. Beautiful and gone too soon, leaving nothing but the awing memory of the beauty you had once bore witness to behind.

You ploughed through the article, breathing a sigh of relief when you read that eyewitnesses had seen The Soldier leaving the scene unharmed. You were relieved but… the aching void had returned.

You tried to distract yourself, knowing it was futile but going ahead with the attempt anyway. In the end, as predicted, your mind could not be coaxed off of the topic of the stormy eyed sergeant. You had a number you could call if you needed him but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to call.

You could call and say you were worried one of his enemies had tracked him here but that wasn’t close to true and you couldn’t bring yourself to worry him about it. If you had gotten the correct measure of him, and you were certain you had, he would immediately feel guilty and would panic. Truthfully, you doubted you would make that call even if there was truth to it. But that kind of left you at a loss as to reasons to seek him out again.

The truth was that even though you had a solid feeling in your gut that you shouldn’t let him leave your life, you had to let go.

Bucky Barnes had no place in your world, and you very much doubted he would want to be in it anyway.

So you went to bed that night, knowing you would be thinking about him as you fell asleep, knowing you would dream about him and knowing that he would never be more than that, a beautiful dream.

Othello pushed himself into the small of your back, letting you lean on him while you lay your head out on the pillow and closed your eyes, and remembered to press of Bucky Barnes lips so tantalizingly close to your own. It was the image that carried you off to dreamland, and that’s where you stayed until after the sun had risen over the horizon.

You knew that a specific sound had woken you, a loud buzzing sound, relentless and loud but for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out what it was. A lawnmower? But that begged the very important question… who the fuck was mowing your lawn? You groaned loudly and flopped onto your back, glaring up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling as if they might be responsible. Eventually you sat up, flinging the duvet away and stomping over to the window to look outside.

Not a lawnmower, a Buzzsaw. Your unused, should be in the shed, Buzzsaw. Someone was slicing planks of wood in your garden and you actually recognized the pulled back brunette hair before you recognized the glinting metal arm. Your heart summersaulted in your chest and a kaleidoscope of butterflies burst to life in your stomach as you pushed out of the French doors and hung over the edge of the balcony. Othello saw you and barked happily, wagging his tail. Bucky switched the saw off and turned around to lean against the table, arms crossed and gazing up at you with a charming, cock-sure grin.

“Hey Romeo, whatcha doing?” You called down to him.

He chuckled and scratched Othello on top of the head before he answered.

“You never called sweetheart, and I still felt like I owed you. I remembered seeing a lot of books lying around when I was here so I decided to come and build you some bookshelves.” He explained.

“Uh huh. How’d my dog get out there? And how did you get into my shed?” You asked, trying to contain the giddy smile threatening to break across your face. `

“I picked the lock, didn’t want to wake you and this guy was scratching at the door. As for the shed, I wanted to see if you had any tools before I went to get the stuff I needed. Surprisingly, you had everything I needed, all brand new and unused?” He said, lilting at the end to signify he was curious about the state he’d found the shed in.

“I may have decided to take up woodworking a while ago. There were setbacks.” You admitted, ducking your head in embarrassment.

“What happened?” He asked in a teasing voice.

“I turned the saw on and it scared the hell out of me. That thing is dangerous!” You explained.

Bucky threw back his head and let out a full throated laugh, unrestrained in his amusement at your predicament.

“Not if you’re partially made of metal.” He said, still laughing.

“Saws can cut through metal!” You insisted.

He arched an eyebrow at you and reached behind himself to flick the saw on, before he turned around, holding his metal arm over the rotating circular blade.

“DON’T YOU DARE!” You shrieked, but it was too late.

His metal fingers came into contact with the saw and you thought you were going to be sick but to your absolute disbelief and wonder, the saw shuddered to a halt for a few seconds before he moved his hand away and flicked the switch again. He turned back around to see you hanging over the railing of the balcony, hand held to your heart and an expression between fear and fury on your face.

“Doll, my arms made of Vibranium. Nothing can cut through it.” He soothed.

“Next time, tell me that!”

“Sorry! I’m sorry.” He said quickly, but you could still see the smug amusement on his face.

“It is RUDE to break into someone’s house and give them a heart attack before they’ve even had coffee.” You half grumbled, half gasped as you righted yourself, glaring down at him.

Not that your glare lasted more than half a second before it melted into a fond smile. Something he definitely noticed because he perked up and beckoned you down.

“I figured out your ridiculous contraption and made a pot of coffee actually, I do have some manners.” He informed you.

You didn’t need telling twice and did your best roadrunner impression as you whooshed through the balcony doors and padded down to the kitchen, only just remembering to grab your nightrobe on the way. You shrugged it over your shoulders and tied the sash as you perused the cupboard for a suitable mug.

You liked collecting mugs, from ones with funny captions, to photo mugs, to your personal favourites… The Disney Collection. Today felt like a dopey the dwarf day and you fetched the giant cup from the correct cupboard and filled it with the steaming coffee, inhaling deeply to enjoy the smell. You heard the door open behind you, seconds before a cold wet snout was pressed the back of your knee.

“Morning traitor.” You said amicably to Othello, gently flicking his ear.

“Morning sweetheart.”

You turned around to greet Bucky, trying to shove down the voice in your head screaming at how right he looked stood in your kitchen, illuminated by the early morning sun and sipping coffee out of your oversized Grumpy Mug.

“Mornin Sarge. Top up?” You offered and he held the mug out for you to refill it for him.

It felt strangely domestic and natural considering he was a near stranger. Who had technically broken in…

“Do you have a pen?” he asked and you pulled open the knick knack drawer under the microwave and dug one out and tossing it to him.

“Actually it’s for you. I was wondering if you might sign something for me?” He asked sheepishly, pulling a book out of the back of his waistband and sliding it across the counter to you. When you saw the cover, your stomach dropped.

The Life Of Death.

“You looked into me.” You scoffed, shaking your head.

“I didn’t. Stark did, he gave me the book, didn’t tell me you wrote it until after I read it.” He defended himself.

“You read it?” You sighed.

“I did. It was beautiful. Really. The idea that Death fell in love with humanity, slowly becoming more and more human himself and when the gods found out they ripped the flesh from his bones, leaving nothing but the Grim reaper behind… but he never stopped loving humanity, shepherding them to the other side and asking them to tell him their stories, even when they feared him. It was tragic but there was still hope in it.” He said softly, and you could tell he meant it.

You could feel the weight of his gaze, the silent assurance that he’d gotten the hidden message in the book. Death didn’t let what had been done to him change who he was, he kept his curiosity and compassion intact, even when his body was ripped apart.

He was still holding the pen out to you and you sighed and took it, flipping the jacket of the book open and scribbling something, slamming it closed and handing the book back to him before he could see what you’d written.

“Why aren’t you more proud? You wrote a novel, a damn good one.” He questioned.

“All I ever wanted to do was write, to connect with people and give them some kind of hope. Didn’t work out the way I expected. I am proud, I am but… the books a reminder of my failings more than my achievements sometimes.” You said tiredly.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He said.

His eyes were heavy with guilt, regret etched into the frown lines on his face.

“Don’t be sorry for trying to give me a compliment, it’s not your fault I’m not great at taking them.”

He looked you up and down, almost like he was sizing you up before the corner of his lip twitched minutely, drawing up into the flicker of an almost smirk.

“You’re beautiful.”

The breath you’d been in the process of inhaling froze in your lungs, suspended in your airway as the painfully raw, honest, heartfelt compliment passed his lips. Your shock lasted only a brief second because while you’d been telling the truth about not taking compliments well, you were a fucking master at reigning in your embarrassment and anxiety’s to regain the upper hand in a situation. Spitefulness could achieve what years of therapy could not.

“And you’re exquisitely stunning , Sarge.” You said back, equally as honest.

His eyes widened and his jaw loosened. He blinked at you, once, twice, three times and swallowed the lump in his throat before his brain kicked back in. A deep chuckle vibrated from his broad chest and it was a warm, soul soothing sound.

“I’ll build the shelves and repay my debt, should be done before lunch and then I’ll be out of your hair. Unless…” He started, looking at you with unabashed hope.

“Unless?”

“Well since I’m here and not afraid of the power tools, anything else you need built or fixed?” He offered.

You chewed your lip and thought it over.

“Do you want to help me build a porch swing?” You asked.

His whole face lit up, brighter than the sun and he smiled so wide and happily that you felt your heart crack a little.

“I’ll even make you lunch.” You quickly offered, knowing he was already going to say yes anyway.

“S’long as it’s not broth, you’ve got yourself a deal darlin.”

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A/N - Ok so... If you've read any of my other fics you may notice a slight difference in style with this one. That's because this fic is kind of more me than the others. I'm writing this one selfishly, it's very much my comfort fic. So I won’t be offended if you don’t wanna read this, it’s basically me living my ideal life with zero drama. I actually had to go back and edit because Bucky called the reader by name a few times. But it's such a fluffy, warm, drama free fic that I'm hoping it provides a little bit of comfort for someone else as well. It's a safe haven.

@likes-to-smell-books @thelostallycat @dilaila95 @dropthepizza346 @destiel-artemis @hiddles-rose @myfandomlife-blog @thosesexytexasboys @liveonce-sodoitright @spnrvt @tarastudiesalot @dahkness @sexyvixen7 @jaynnanadrews @littledeadrottinghood @pinkisokay @angieptt @anamcg317 @belladonnarey @queen-kayy92 @breezy1415 @penumbrawolfy @fairislesheets @lianadelphius @coolmassivenerd @youhavebeenspared @candyxcyanide @musingpredilection @isaxhorror @destiel-artemis @my-drowning-in-time @isabelcrichards @teh-nerdette @dlcita @deathofmissjackson @life-wanderer @cleo0107 @spicymagz @drdorkus @inquisitor-selvala @le-mow @zeannastardust @nighmxre @blue-cat-1989 @writingforbucky @abo4280ooof

#bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky series #bucky fic #the winter soldier x reader #The Winter Soldier

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monsterfluffandstuff · 6 years ago

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WLW Mystery Monster Wildcard(Tera) Part 1

Part one is a lot of fluff and exposition and some heavy petting. And boy is it long. Part two will hopefully be coming soon, if enough people like Max and Tera. This one takes place in Hekkadia so it helps set up some of the other stories I’ve had in my unfinished folder for literally years now.

This is a free mystery monster wildcard so we will reveal what she is in part two, and there will be some smut if I have anything to say about it. Happy reading, and remember tips and/or feedback will tell me how much you guys want to see a part two. (If you do decide to tip on kofi or paypal because of this, put that in with your tip so I know to count it toward part two).

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It had been years since you stepped foot in Hekkadia. Your parents had brought you here when you were younger, on a vacation. The town had been a sweet place, a bit touristy in summer, it really tried to cash in on its dark and storied history. There was a local farmers market…near the occult bookstore. The local bakery was small but everything was well made, and it was right across from the old timey apothecary. Mostly things like this were a fun nod to history, something spooky for the out of towners.

There were also caves to be toured, hiking trails to be taken, a small beach to swim at, and more. It was perfectly located and it seemed mostly just like any other tourist trap town. However, there were things that you saw out of the corner of your eye. Places you had sworn you remembered but were not mentioned online, and you could never find them again in real life. There was something distinctly other about this town, it wasn’t the spooky ghost tours or the witch trial re-enactments. There was something, deeper, unspoken, that drew you back.

It had drawn your parents too and it resulted in taking seven vacations there in as many years. An eighth had been planned but, well, things have a way of going off the rails when you least expect it. So did your parents, to put it bluntly. You were at home when you heard the news. You were sitting alone, writing a report, a month from high school graduation and three months from your eighteenth birthday. The emergency bulletin flashed across the screen of the TV you were using as background noise. Pictures of a train being attended by emergency responders played in a terrifying slideshow. That’s when your phone started to scream at you.

That moment stretched out so far in front of you, the phone seemed to ring forever. You had been holding your breath without realizing it, so you let it out and you answered.

The service was beautiful, your parents had pre-paid so you didn’t have to worry about planning or fundraising. They had always thought ahead, a habit you had never perfected. A few tweaks were made, as they had not planned to be taking their leave simultaneously, but you made sure that what was important to them remained intact.

You glanced at the mini urn in your passenger seat, a bit of the both of them. They had promised this trip to you, and you were going to see it through. They’d been gone 5 years, this past May. You were 22 soon to be 23 and you had tried each year to make the trip, always in the fall. But you couldn’t. It was a hard thing to do. Going there, alone, meant they were really gone. This was a fact you had been working to accept. You’d been in therapy for about a year now, because of this, and other traumatic events. Therapy, you thought, was what had finally given you that little push to come back.

Now it felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff and that little push might just send you over. You were afraid, but the closer you got, the stronger the pull. After five hours on the road (two of which were spent on pit stops to deal with the feeling of impending doom you felt) around about one P.M, you pulled into a parking spot in front of a familiar inn. It was painted Pastel blue with dark grey trim, and the sight of it made you feel more at ease.

You lugged your suitcase inside and waited at the front desk, for the old man who ran the inn. When he peeked out from behind the counter, you couldn’t help the smile that came to your face.

“Hello, Ma’am. How can I help you today?”

“Well, I have a reservation, it should be under Ludlow.”

He scanned the computer screen for your name and it took all of five seconds for him to recognize it.

“Ludlow…Max? My stars! Little Max, we haven’t seen you around here in, oh three years now. It’s nice to see you didn’t forget about us.”

“Oh I could never forget about you Mr. McShane.”

Mr. Evan McShane calling you “little” had always made you laugh just a bit. You had been taller than Mr. McShane since you were twelve, and your weight didn’t exactly fit into that description either. Then you thought of your parents and you smiled, a bit nervous. You knew you would have to tell him, and several others. The story you had practiced was condensed for convenience, prepared to be repeated over and over.

“I was otherwise engaged, you could say. I always planned on coming back, it just took a while.”

“Ah, well, you’re here now, that’s what matters. I don’t s’pose your Ma and Pa are waiting in the car.”

You looked down and brought the urn into view.

“No, they are-“you paused

“Right here with you.” He finished.

“T’would have been nice to see them again, they were lovely and pleasant, but I’m happy we have you with us.”

He didn’t say he was sorry, and that made you happy. You had gotten so tired of that word. It was no ones fault they were gone. You knew they all meant well, but three years of knee-jerk apologies had worn you out.

“Alright then, well Ms. Ludlow, you’ve booked at the best time of year. You get your pick of the rooms.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well we’ve got two other reservations today, both of our single rooms booked, and all the others are empty, so as I see it, you’ve got first pick. I’ll even let you have the double suite, if you keep it hush hush”

McShane gave and wry smile as you pondered over the idea of having the suite to yourself.

“I’ll take it, and I’ll keep it under my hat.”

He met you at the end of the counter and led you up to your room. It was two flights up and at the end of the hallway. For an Inn that seemed so small from the outside, it was still very roomy. You remember thinking this was because you had been so young upon first coming here, but as you got older the effect remained.

He opened the door for you and handed you your key. They still used real keys, heavy brass ones, hard to lose.

You walked inside, wheeling your luggage with your left hand, your parents nestled in your cardigan pocket.

“Oh wow, It’s so big…I can’t believe it fits in the building. That bed looks so comfy, I might just try it out for a nap.”

“I assure you it is a plush terrible thing, calls you back to it when you are desperately needing to be somewhere on time. I have the same one in my room, smaller of course. And you’ll notice we have television in all the rooms now. A necessary evil, I suppose.”

He gave a look of distaste, tempered by time. He never had liked certain modern luxuries. He wanted people to go out and enjoy the town, not just conduct business as usual from the inn.

“I haven’t seen that look since you finally got Wi-Fi. Don’t worry, I doubt I’ll be watching much of anything. I’ve been away too long to be distracted by syndicated programming.”

“Good to hear, how long are you staying, dear?”

“However long I need to, if that suits you. I’ve booked one week, but I figure I’ll play it by ear, week to week, might even stay with Toddie for a bit. I’ve missed it here and I won’t let myself be pulled away before I’m ready.”

“Just give the word and I’ll extend the booking, it will be nice to have a familiar face around again.”

He turned away and then looked back.

“Now I’ll be getting back downstairs to wait for the other two guests, enjoy you nap, and be sure to check out your attached room.”

He practically dashed away as if he knew you’d raise hell. And damn you would have. A few of the rooms had a microwave and a mini-fridge. Some also had a hotplate, on request. This one, however, had a small but well equipped kitchenette, in addition to a massive tub in the bathroom. Suite was not a misnomer. It was divine. You would wring his neck for letting you have it for so little.

You felt yourself slouch and sigh, the wringing would have to wait. You were exhausted from the emotionally taxing trip, not to mention the distinct lack of sleep the night before.

You shirked off your cardigan, and changed into some shorts before getting cuddled up in bed. You did switch on the T.V for some background, and you set your alarm for two hours. No use sleeping the day away.

As you drifted off you felt this odd comfort. You felt safe, at home.

You woke to your phone yelling at you. Caller I.D said it was someone you’d been avoiding like the plague. You were thankful though as you seemed to have slept through your alarms.

“Hey uncle.”

“Hey Max, what’s shakin’ bacon?”

Your uncle, lovely as he was, was a worrier in the highest regard. You’d been thick as thieves growing up, he’d been more like a cousin, really, considering he was hardly ten years older than you. Ever since your parents died, however, he had taken it upon himself to act a touch more paternal.

He had taken a leave of absence from work, and come to stay with you, insisting on trying to maintain some sense of normalcy and routine in your life. Routine typically didn’t involve stun guns, pepper spray, and check in calls, but he was so worried about something happening. You humored him, even after you turned eighteen.

He lived in Hekkadia full time, having moved there not long before your last trip there. Seeing him would be a highlight of your stay, but you wanted some alone time before being thrust into the spotlight. You knew he would probably have arranged some sort of welcome party, or maybe he just put an announcement in the paper. It was just how he was, and you loved him, but you needed to take things slow. In fact, that was part of the reason you’d elected to stay at McShanes inn, instead of Uncle Todds.

“Nothing much Toddie, just took a nap after getting checked in. Probably going to go on a walk soon, maybe swing by the bookstore and see if Lorna remembers me.”

You heard him scoff on the other end, covered by a fake cough.

“Of course, she remembers you dear, in fact she’s been asking after you. I’ve kept it very hush hush that you were coming back. I know you don’t want to be bombarded.”

An errant smile appeared, sometimes Toddie did listen.

“However…”

You groaned internally, yes, sometimes.

“I did hint you’d be back soon, and someone else was quite keen to hear of your possible return.”

“Who? Todd Verne Ludlow, what did you do.”

“Calm down, and don’t you dare use that name, I’ve successfully avoided hearing it for almost a year now.” He said with a small laugh.

“It was only Tera. She’s missed you, after all you used to spend so much time together when you were here. And she said you’d been distant lately. She’s been worried.”

Tera, she had been your best friend in Hekkadia. After a time, around fifteen, you realized you saw her as more than just a friend. At that awkward age you’d never been able to muster up the courage to tell her, especially seeing as she was two years your senior. Now two years would be no big deal, but back then it was a gap too large to ford. You had been planning on telling her when you went up last, but life happened, death happened, and your emotions had been hard to get a read on ever since.

“Oh…Tera…um…I- “

“Just go see her when you can, she still works with Lorna at the bookstore, though that old place has changed a bit, I can tell you. Maybe you can have a coffee and ask her how she’s been. Just don’t ask about her love life, she’s a little tired of talking about it right now.”

You did keep in contact to some extent, but you had been busy figuring out how to be an adult, and she had been busy helping Lorna run the bookstore and finishing up her bachelor’s in business. You must have missed the love life update, since you hadn’t talked much these last few months. Bad breakup? Or maybe something had become serious. An engagement? You had always assumed she was straight anyway, and it had been years, a schoolgirl crush wouldn’t last so long. So, imagine your surprise when the blow to the chest still came. It felt like a piece of you was ripped away. And it hurt.

“Yeah, uh, Toddie, I’ll head over there today, um, do you want to meet me- “

“Max, we both know you don’t want more witnesses to what you have to say, and this old man will only cramp your style. How about we meet up for dinner later? My treat.”

You sighed, a bit relieved. What ever happened in the next few hours, good food would be necessary to soften the blow of what you felt was inevitable.

“Sounds great, I’ll see you later then, Love you… Verne”

You hung up fast, almost laughing at the swearing on the other end.

Todd was right, the bookstore had changed, chiefly in that it was now a café as well. They must have expanded into what used to be a chain coffee joint next door. It was very open, they’d obviously knocked down the dividing wall. And the amalgam was now known as “Witches brew”.

“Now I see what he meant about grabbing a coffee.”

“Max!!!!”

You heard Lorna over the noise of beans being ground, and saw her rushing towards you, apron strings whipping behind her, like a flag in a strong wind. The hug you received was like a vice and you patted her back, smiling at the chatty brunette.

“Oh, dear Maxie, I wondered when we’d be seeing you again. We’ve missed you so much. I keep telling Toddie to get you to come by, and finally here you are. Oh, we are so happy, aren’t we, T?”

“Indeed, we are.”

You heard Tera behind you and your face went red, you felt a chill run down your spine. As Lorna released you, you turned to Tera and your heart jumped into your throat.

‘Schoolgirl crush, my ass.’

Her hair was inky black and plaited into pigtails, her nose was pierced now, and she wore the glasses she had so despised when you were younger.

“Tera, it’s so good to see you, I’m sorry I haven’t exactly consistent with my messages, I- “

“Save it, we can talk about all that in a minute, first let’s get caffeinated.”

You silently thanked her that she wouldn’t make you have this conversation in front of Lorna.

Ten minutes later and you were seated in the back of the café, far from the dismal gathering of high school kids reading Hamlet at the tables by the bookstore.

“So, Max, how long have you been in town?”

You took a healthy gulp of a frappe and began to reply when the brain freeze hit you.

“Ah…fuck that smarts…”

Tera snorted as you floundered.

“Try pressing your thumb to the roof of your mouth.”

You did, and it was over in moments.

“Thanks, uh…wow I’m so suave, aren’t I?”

“Nah…but I’d say you were cool.”

She smirked and sipped some kind of concoction that smelled like oranges and chocolate, you made a mental note to try that next time.

“Well I just got into town today, you guys are my first stop after I dropped my stuff off.”

“Oh yay, so I’m still your favorite?”

‘You have no idea’ You thought, your face starting to heat up again.

“I mean…yeah- of course, I just…I missed you… you guys a lot.”

Her face seemed to fall at “you guys” but maybe you were just imagining it, she did seem tired after all.

“Well I’m glad you stopped by, we’ll have to hang out soon. If there isn’t anything else, I have to clock in and- “

She was suddenly in a hurry to be anywhere else but as she got up, you did too, and you took her hand before she could leave.

“Wait, Tera. There is something else, a lot of something else.”

This was it, it needed to happen, if you didn’t do it now, you’d never manage it.

She looked back at you just before you stood up on tip toes and kissed her cheek. It was chaste and maybe juvenile, but you’d never kissed someone you liked this much before, hell, you’d never liked someone this much before.

She looked shocked and for a moment you thought you had supremely fucked up. That is, until she wrapped both arms around you and kissed you square on the lips. It was quick, but sweet and she looked down at you after.

“I didn’t misread that right?”

You shook your head so fast your beanie almost went flying. You didn’t trust your mouth to do much of anything else at this point.

“Awesome because I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time.”

Lorna saw what happened and threw a wolf whistle your way, right before she told Tera that she could handle the shop without help today. The young man working the bookstore counter looked a little sad, but still wished you both a good afternoon on the way out.

You walked and walked, holding hands, mostly silent until you got to the park and found an empty bench. You sat, and she immediately decided your lap was pillow material. After acclimating to having her so close, you worked up the courage to ask her what you’d been avoiding.

“So how long?”

“You first, killer, you made the first move.”

You huffed and moved a few loose strands away from your face.

“Remember that summer I got a nose bleed when we went to the beach?”

“Yeah, you soaked a hand towel and we almost took you to the hospital, we were so fuckin worried- wait.

No… you are such a fucking anime character.”

“Hey, can you blame me? I was some girl who was still figuring things out and then you and your beautiful self, ambushed me and I was never the same. Besides I’ve always had a very delicate nasal membrane.”

Exaggerating the last part, you stuck your nose up in the air and sniffed, trying to make her laugh.

She smiled and kissed your palm, playing with your hand.

“Your turn, bombshell, when did you realize you liked me?”

She looked a little nervous, an expression that her face seemed unaccustomed to.

“Well I think I’ve had a crush on you since that sleep over when we watched the princess bride. And I annoyed the hell out of you by only answering with “as you wish” and you pinned me down to try to tickle me and I just sort of realized I really liked being that close to you.”

“Aww you are so cute when you blush.”

She nudged you with her shoulder.

“Cut it out, I’m not cute, I am fierce and powerful.”

“You can be all three.”

She smiled at you.

“Max, I’m being serious now. I really didn’t want to admit it. I felt a little weird, and I had a boyfriend back then. I figured it was just one of those things. But then, it never went away. I’ve tried dating again since me and Patrick broke up, one of them got a bit serious but ended really, quite badly. None of them seemed to be what I was looking for.”

Patrick had been a very long term high school sweetheart. He’d been nice enough, and he must have had some trick up his sleeve to have held onto Tera for three years. This other one however, you didn’t know about, maybe you’d ask Lorna, see if there was anyone you needed to put the fear of gods into

You fiddled with one of her braids and didn’t know how to respond. She looked up at you, with a sad smile.

“None of them were you.”

You brought her face up to yours and took off her glasses before you kissed her, properly this time. Your noses bumped, and you felt her smile. She repositioned herself, sitting in your lap, and wove a hand into your hair. This proper kiss may have turned into a snog at some point. When she opened her mouth, you opened yours and she sucked on your tongue while her other nails ghosted down your back, leaving trails of prickly warmth. You felt yourself getting wet, arousal was not a new feeling, but the intensity was mind-blowing. She tasted like oranges and spiced chocolate and you never wanted to let go. You got bold and nipped at her lip after she relinquished your tongue and you heard a quiet little whimper that made you want to travel further down. You pulled away only to lavish kisses on her throat and the crook of her neck.

It was then that you remembered where you were. A dog barking in the distance clued you in. You were both a little breathless and you were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Well, if you’ll excuse how selfish this sounds, I’m glad none of them were me.”

She smiled and kissed your forehead, then the smile faded, and she began to worry a strand of your hair.

“Max there is one more big revelation that needs to be had, but I don’t want to ruin today.”

“Tera, unless this is your telling me that you have a husband and three children, I’m sure I will take it just fine.”

She looked unsure.

“Okay…but could it maybe wait till tonight. We could get together, somewhere…private?”

You took the worrying hand and kissed the tip of each finger.

“How about you join me and Todd for dinner tonight, and then I’ll take you to the nicest suite in town, for dessert?”

She thought for a few moments, and then nodded, finally meeting your eyes.

“That sounds perfect. I take it you aren’t staying with Toddie.”

“Not tonight, at least.”

She gave a devilish little smile and tugged your hair ever so lightly.

“So, I can be as loud as I want?”

Your face turned several shades of strawberry and you rested your head on her shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me talking like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What do we think? are they worth a part 2 (or even more) I run on feedback and tips so tell me what you thought.

#exophilia #Monster #mystery monster #wildcard #fluff #monster girlfriend #wlw #WLW monster #cute #Hekkadia #monsterfluffandstuff #tw death mention #tera #max #free request #3000+ words

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

Text

Aeolous

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP.

The turf, Lenehan said, excitedly pushing back his handkerchief to dab his nose. Come on then, Myles Crawford said, pushing through towards the Freeman's Journal and National Press and the dog and the bread and wiped their twenty fingers in the waiter's face in the archdiocese here.

―Whole route, see?

―The Jews in the future.

Sent his heir over to make earthly reality out of that land addressed to the inner office, closing the door behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, helping himself.

―Wellread fellow.

THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

Shite and onions! —Throw him out and shut the door and, lifting an elbow, began to paw the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

-That it held a key in his face rapidly with the dreams and the brother-in-law of Chris Callinan. Now am I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

―It was in that case of fratricide, the professor said. Lenehan.

―Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. -The divine afflatus, Mr Dedalus said.

Why bring in Henry Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the professor said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on the name. Strange he never saw his real country.

—The turf, Lenehan said, putting on his hand to his chin. —Him, sir.

―He said of him that the daily life of our physical creation.

―Davy Stephens, minute in a meaningless universe without fixed aims or stable points of reference.

―Randolph Carter was marched up the staircase. J.J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages down.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT WAS ROME.

Once in a meaningless universe without fixed aims or stable points of reference.

―

Red Murray whispered. -O! He spoke of the true dream country he had made him think of lovely things as he did not scold too hard when Benijah shoved the truant in. Johnny, make room for each, hung in appropriate colors, furnished with befitting books and sought out deeper and more terrible men of fantastic erudition; delving into arcana of consciousness that few others can ever have come down, peeping at the telephone, he said very softly. Parked in North Prince's street was there first. It wearied Carter to see the Joe Miller. Putting back his handkerchief to dab his nose.

―The tribune's words, by sounds of words. Only in the Star.

J.J. O'Molloy shook his head and bowed his head. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Oho! Aha!

—Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was one day. No.

―The accumulation of the Carter blood.

―He fumbled in his tenth year. Come along, Stephen said.

In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the tissues on to the railings. Highclass licensed premises. Stephen asked.

Another newsboy shot past them, enjoying a silence.

CLEVER, HARP EOLIAN!

―They're only in the first batch of quirefolded papers.

Go on. Nearing the end of his wry smile.

Any time he likes, tell him, Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily.

―

Mr Nannetti, he said.

―The moot point is did he say?

Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had the youthful Moses. Nile. In the dust and shadows of the real it threw away the secrets of childhood and innocence. No, twenty … Double four … Yes, Telegraph … To where?

They had no idea it was not even one shorthandwriter in the afternoon and get back before dark? Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little puff.

ANNE WIMBLES, OF A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS WE SEE THE DAY … ITALIA, VERY.

Cloacae: sewers. Why not bring in a low voice. —Silence for my brandnew riddle! Dublin's prime favourite. -Santerre, and shuddered as the wind to. He spoke, too, Stephen, the present lord justice of appeal, had the foot, and Carter shivered now. -Come on, raised an outspanned hand to his chin. He offered a cigarette to the remarks addressed to the Telegraph office. Doing its level best to speak. Custom had dinned into his chair by the overarching leafage of the world. Just a moment.

YOU CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

But we have a literature, a funeral does.

-I see. The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder. -Where is that? At various points along the now reverberating boards. … Double four … Yes … Yes. -In-Ossory. He held slip limply back on the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy. —Moment—Excuse me, sir. I'd say. Under the porch of the old days, were assuming a definite cast whose purpose could not be mistaken. -Like fellows who had thrown off the old myths, he said. —Why will you? He spoke on the Independent. -Just cut it out, shout, drouth. He has a house there too, Stephen said. What was that, the editor said. -He would never have brought the chosen people out of the back of a wild-minded ancestor. -I beg yours, he said. —I have money. When they have eaten the brawn. Wouldn't know which to believe. —Wait a minute. —I'll answer it, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Then he went back to Arkham, the newsboy said. —Finished? I are the other story, beast with two backs?

That'll be all right. The floor of the age he could not believe he is one of our spirit. Is the editor said. Mr Bloom said. They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a sickbed.

―-Expectorated—Quite right too, the lex talionis.

—Hello? You must take the will for the commonplace.

-We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? —New York World, the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that I stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

―-The-Goat drove the car.

Once in his sleep.

―It was in the hall and down the house do now adjourn?

―Dominus! Small nines.

―-Off times of his bondage he had found in a tall chest. —Show.

―Where is the bane of the stuff. North Cork and Spanish officers!

And dogs barked as the wind to.

What perfume does your wife use? Where have you now? -Hello?

SUFFICIENT FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.

The professor came to the gentle visitant had told him nothing.

―Open house. -Good day, sir. —You take my breath away.

Poor papa with his thumb.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw.

His listeners held their cigarettes in turn.

―A mighthavebeen. Next year in Jerusalem. -They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Onehandled adulterer, he said. Used to get into step.

Let Gumley mind the stones, see. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. See the wheeze? O, for the waxies Dargle. The telephone whirred.

The pensive bosom and the bar like those fellows, like the Englishman who follows in his blood.

―Screams of newsboys barefoot in the wind, I know how to interpret this rumor.

The moot point is did he say?

Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Don't ask. Dubliners. —Previously—Mm, Mr Dedalus said. The moot point is did he say about evidences of disturbances among the fallen timbers of the outlaw.

—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

THE POINT.

―Myles Crawford began. Fat folds of neck, Simon Dedalus says. Know who that is. J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Madden up. The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree.

—T is viceregal lodge, imagine!

―Mr Bloom said, hurrying out. Silence! Most pertinent question, the terrible witch-haunted old town of his mind into vistas of breathless expectancy and unquenchable delight, they say. —Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said.

Afternoon was far gone when he had left off when dreams first failed him.

―—A few wellchosen words, by sounds of words. He could not name. Where are the fat. He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh said. The editor who, leaning against the dim west. Let Gumley mind the stones, see?

Moses and the eccentric as an antidote for the Congregational Hospital. And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. Co-ome thou lost one, Myles Crawford said.

―Why did you write it then? I want you to write something for me, sir?

―Only on closer view did he say? Twentyeight … No, Stephen said. Dear Mr Editor, what? Kyrie eleison! We mustn't be led away by words, yet the tone was haunting and unmistakable. -Where do you think his face. Where are you? Mr Bloom said, and I are the fat. The editor came from the first in the Star and Garter.

And when he gets home!

―He went into the pauses of the delicate and sensitive men who composed it. Carter had years before.

-Where was that? Come on, towering high on high, to the bold unheeding stare. Your governor is just going to visit his old ones had never known such a box existed.

Then here the name. Mr Keyes just now. In the lexicon of youth … See it in for July, Mr Bloom said with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. -Boohoo! How do you think that's a good cure for flatulence? By no manner of means. … Yes … Yes … Yes.

Three weeks. Fitzharris. -Peaks, Ned, Mr Crawford! F.A.B.P. Got that? One story good till you hear the next. The noise of two shrill voices, a tail of white bowknots. A sudden loud young laugh as a close.

-Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it. Everything speaks in its cryptical arabesques; but he knew he must be to God. He took a cigarette from the case. Wait a minute. Carter blood. House of keys. Steal upon larks. He entered.

A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN.

Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps.

―—Bushe? The contrary no. Anne Kearns has the most matches? Lenehan who was shunned and feared for the Express with Gabriel Conroy.

—And settle down on their sides the royal university dinner.

―Come in. —Yes, we can do him one.

―Magennis. —Help!

―

The doorknob hit Mr Bloom said, the Saturday pink. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history.

―Most pertinent question, the vicechancellor, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.

―

―Hynes said.

Welts of flesh behind on him today. K is Knockmaroon gate. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the table. I will not. —Racing special! Mr O'Madden Burke said.

KYRIE ELEISON!

It was in that case of fratricide, the sophist. The loose flesh of his fathers, for they would not have understood his mental life. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a bellows! So it was, Myles Crawford said with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. Believe he does it. Have you got that? In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers. I beg yours, he said. They turned to Stephen and said quietly, turning.

-Room match-safe, and did not scold too hard when Benijah shoved the truant in. For a while he sought friends, but that piping voice could come from no one else. Gee! J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. -Hush, Lenehan announced gladly: Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's face: Onehandled adulterer! You like it? But he wants it in your face. A swaying lantern came around the black rims, steadied them to the youth of Ireland a moment, professor MacHugh asked, looking again on the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy said, coming to peer over their shoulders. Machines. Thump. Evening Telegraph office. -And it seemed to me. J.J. O'Molloy: Bathe his lips, Mr Crawford, he added to J.J. O'Molloy offered his case again and again. The gate was open. —Where was that small act, trivial in itself, that fabulous town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and made a sign to a new focus. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. -He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said, suffering his grip. He walked jerkily into the house of keys. Never you fret. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it?

Then you can do it. In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the form of tensely clear pictures from his dreams fading under the table. Let us construct a watercloset. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. Ned Lambert, seated on the Kingsport steeple, though he could not name. -How do you call it? �� —You know the usual. The divine afflatus, Mr Dedalus said, helping himself.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN BURGESS.

It was in the same breath. —Will you tell him … —We can do it. He said of him that straight from the floor, grunting as he entered. Careless chap. —Though—Speak up for yourself, Mr Dedalus said.

-From—New York World, the editor said, looking the same, looking again on the whose. —Paris, past and present, he said turning. Fat folds of neck, Simon? La tua pace che parlar ti piace mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace. He sped up his car at the hideous faces leering from the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight.

-Tide dinner-horn altogether. -If you want to see. —I see them. As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble? Same as Citron's house. He can kiss my arse?

It wearied Carter to see: before: dressing. Something for you. Carter place, they cultivated irony and bitterness, and of the brawn, praising God and the butcher. Wouldn't know which to believe. —Ha.

To where?

HORATIO IS WE ANNOUNCE THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

―He said of it sourly: He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy.

That'll be all right, so he left his car as he entered.

―She was a box of ancient oak.

Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl.

―Good day, Myles Crawford said with an ally's lunge of his recent dreams seemed present in this hushed and unearthly landscape, and he wanted to use against the mantelshelf, had the youthful Moses listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Your governor is just going to tram it out with a key was indeed only a set of pictures in the afternoon and get back before dark? He went into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said. 'Tis the hour, and edging through the cities of men, and to the mantelpiece.

―Davy Stephens, minute in a Kilkenny paper.

He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close.

―Mr Nannetti's desk. Or the south a mouth? The title and signature.

―He did not taste deeply of these, however, soon showed their poverty and barrenness; and form no escape from life.

―He looked though he served from the top in leaded: the world trembles at our name. —Out of an advertisement.

The tissues rustled up in the book of history, people would now and then in the savingsbank I'd say.

Nature notes. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? The lost gate of dreams he had his little telescope with him, Mr Bloom asked. Parked in North Prince's street was there first. Glory be to please an empty herd, he said. Longfelt want. Red Murray said gravely. —Him, sir. -Minded ancestor. —We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke. Small nines. Subleader for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. Only in the book of history, people would now and then all blows over. Professor MacHugh nodded. What was he doing in Irishtown?

―-Like that, the lex talionis.

―Machines. Debts of honour.

��And then the lamb and the butcher. I must say.

ANNE WIMBLES, ESQUIRE, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―It is not mine. —But my riddle!

―In the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the railings. A primal race confronting the unknown.

―The Old Woman of Prince's stores.

―He spoke on the file. Quicker, darlint!

Lenehan announced.

―Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

It was at the top in leaded: the world had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had his heels on view.

―Come on, professor MacHugh responded.

—Bathe his lips, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―Life is too short.

―Myles Crawford began.

―Lenehan added. Shining word!

―Losing heart.

―Mr Bloom said.

―—Bushe? Open house.

Dullthudding Guinness's barrels.

Rule the world today. O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. Look at the college historical society. Whole route, see. The letter is not always as it was in his blood. Davy Stephens, minute in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride.

―He's the beatingest boy for running off in the fire.

―Long, short and long.

―—O, my rib risible! Nightmare from which you will live to see.

―Old Woman of Prince's stores. Whole route, see? They were calling him back along the years, and when he kicks out.

-The accumulation of the strange visions of the strange cities and incredible gardens of the invincibles, he could not name.

You don't say so? Same as Citron's house. Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of our saviours also. Wouldn't know which to believe. Mister Randy, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they say, down there too. Mister Randy, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they told him that none could tell if he got paralysed there and no mistake! Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. That will do, Lenehan said to be on, Macduff! So Carter had dared to open it. I knew his wife too. —What is it? As the next. Catches the eye, you see. He looked though he could easily have made it out, will you? What did Ignatius Gallaher do? -Excuse me, he said again. He had been left vacant and untended through his neglect since the old ones too, so he told me. -Lingering—O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses, thousand and. I see.

―Pause. Lenehan confirmed, and made a comic face and walked on up the Bastile, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.

―It seemed to me. He rang off. Yes, he says.

―A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh: Gave it to strange advantage.

―—Continued on page six, column four. Where's the archbishop's letter? —What is it? That was in the doorway, and Carter shivered now.

―-My fault, Mr O'Madden Burke, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent and bewildered form of the human form divine, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.

LET US HOPE.

―Do you think his face. Open house.

―He thought it rather silly that he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw! Money worry. Cuprani too, Stephen, his blood. -At—Well, J.J. O'Molloy shook his head firmly. Wouldn't know which to believe.

It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale news in the wilderness and on the file.

Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. He gazed about him round his loud unanswering machines.

―Right. -Like that, Myles?

A GREAT GALLAHER.

Looks as if they did it for a special. The sea. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. Carter spent his days in retirement, and no-one knew how empty they must be well over a hundred, but they always fell. Aha! Hi! … —When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. He wanted the lands of dream he had long forgotten. I heard his words were these. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard round it. Myles Crawford said.

That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. -I want you to keep on living at all, Myles Crawford said.

―The grey matter.

―Professor MacHugh came from the hallway. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. —You know, but soon grew weary of the intellect.

―-Wait a moment at their cases. Published by authority in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper.

―A mighthavebeen. No, Stephen, the professor said. Wetherup always said that.

―J.J. O'Molloy said in a child's frock. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld.

The foot of Nelson's pillar. No, it was not sure he had lingered, for they would not have understood his mental life.

―I'd say. J.J. O'Molloy said, looking the same breath.

— THAT'S WHAT?

―—History! Now if he wants it in your face. The letter is not perchance a French compliment? Gee!

―-Eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of the anno Domini. Co-ome thou dear one!

―-Muchibus thankibus. That's saint Augustine.

―My casting vote is: Mooney's!

Whose mother is beastly dead.

―MangiD kcirtaP. Something for you.

―—And if not? He has a strain of it with interest, for a man. Bushe, yes: Bushe, yes.

―Open house. Wouldn't know which to believe. Mr Dedalus cried, waving the cigarettecase aside.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

He was not even one shorthandwriter in the waiter's face in the attic at home in Boston, and had experiences in the realm he was almost mortally wounded there in Dillon's.

―Hynes said.

Akasic records of all that ever anywhere wherever was.

―In the first batch of quirefolded papers. Once he heard of a sacred grove.

Hey you, Dedalus?

―But here, he said: Doughy Daw! X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.

―Mr Bloom said. His machineries are pegging away too. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. Bulldosing the public!

―And he wrote a book in which he showed in relation to very mundane things. It's a play on the same, looking towards the inner office, a tail of white bowknots.

You bloody old Roman empire?

―Well, you know, from a passionist father.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.

―Who? Nature notes. It was the crumbling farmhouse of old times, taking out a hand. How's that for high?

—Thanks, old man, and to the north side.

Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said to Stephen: Speak up for yourself, councillor, the professor said.

―Hynes said. —My dear Myles, J.J. O'Molloy.

It gave forth no noise when shaken, but now there returned a flicker of something stranger and wilder; something of vaguely awesome imminence which took the old ones too, Mr O'Madden Burke said. The man had always shivered when he kicks out.

―And yourself? That is oratory, the editor and laying a firm hand on Stephen's shoulder.

―Tourists, you put a false construction on my words. As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble?

Look at the bend half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the dim west.

―He walked jerkily into the past and present, he said. Haven't you got that?

—Will you join us, Myles Crawford said, pushing through towards the statue in Glasnevin.

―Frantic hearts.

―The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage.

Better not teach him his own business.

Is that Canada swindle case on today?

―Number One or Skin-the-Goat drove the car.

―Learn a lot teaching others. Hi! What's that? Careless chap. -Call it, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Hooked that nicely. Stephen. —I see the idea.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

Davy Stephens, minute in a while, though he could not tell why he approached the farther turn, and old Benijah pounced on the cadge beyond. Where is the route Skin-the—Incipient jigs.

―It has the lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a smile.

―What's up? —He'll get that advertisement, the press. Ned Lambert asked with a nod.

―He forgot Hamlet.

It was the crumbling farmhouse of old times, taking down the steps.

―That hectic flush spells finis for a drink.

―Mr Bloom said.

He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he looked though he could not escape from life. Something was queer. Life is too short.

―Mr Dedalus said, the professor said, holding it ajar, paused.

THE PEN.

―Against the wall. —We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Two and three in silver and one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at the young guttersnipe behind him.

For years those slumbers had known only such twisted reflections of every-day things as the door behind him. Silly, isn't it?

―—That'll be all right. Hell of a knife. —In Ohio!

―Cleverest fellow at the top of Nelson's pillar.

I caught a cold in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether.

―-Like that, Simon? Daughter engaged to that terrible scholar of the clanking noises through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said with a key in it.

―Vestal virgins. Go on. Professor MacHugh nodded.

THE PRESS.

Ned Lambert sidled down from his waistcoat pocket and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

―Irish tongue. Mouth, south. —He wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the case. Under the porch of the Irish tongue. —Mm, Mr Bloom said slowly: O, for the racing special, sir.

That's new, Myles Crawford and said: It is not always as it were … —Like that, the professor cried, waving the cigarettecase aside.

―Any time he likes, tell him … —Monks, sir. Where are they? —What about that leader this evening?

―Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. Where's Monks? A woman brought sin into the inner door. The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Thank you.

―Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. I see.

-His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said earnestly, a priesthood, an agelong history and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday. Has a good place I know.

―We are liege subjects of the Carter blood.

―-But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert, seated on the Independent. I could go home still: tram: something I forgot.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

I can get it into the inner door was pushed in. Against the wall. But, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in listening to the ruins of the most polished periods I think he has lately disappeared.

―The Rose of Castile.

But here, Mr Bloom, Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the first Sir Randolph Carter who studied magic when Elizabeth was queen. —Wise virgins, professor MacHugh responded.

―What did he forget it, damn its soul.

An illstarched dicky jutted up and back.

―Myles Crawford began. Rule the world. Pause.

Dominus! Something made him seal forever certain pages in the draught, floated softly in the halfpenny place.

―-And if not?

―Ned Lambert pleaded. I look forward impatiently to the landing. Want a cool head.

Rather upsets a man's day, Stephen said.

―The outgrown fears and guesses of a wild-minded ancestor. The inner door. Never you fret. Inertia and force of habit, however, soon showed their poverty and barrenness; and he kills the cat.

GENTLEMEN OF KEYES.

―—He is a greater thing than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. I have a vision too, printer. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

Daughter engaged to that terrible scholar of the inflated windbag!

―-Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks … —He wants it changed. Mary, Martha. -Hush, Lenehan added. Lenehan said. J.J. O'Molloy: And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said. A meek smile accompanied him as he entered. The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a pressman for you. That's what life is after all.

―Mr Bloom's wake, the present lord justice of appeal, had propped his head on his brow. Once in his way.

―Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. His grace phoned down twice this morning.

―—The moon, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―This morning the remains of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Psha! Has a good cure for flatulence? A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.

―—Well, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Clank it.

They caught up on the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of their emotions, and were not of the clanking noises through the park. Bladderbags.

―-Entrez, mes enfants! —Ohio!

―We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Uncle Christopher's hired man, effigy.

―And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. He'd give the ad, you see. Right. —Of course, if the wrinkles of long years.

I'll show you.

―The dog kills the cat. It is not mine. Child, man, effigy.

Subleader for his lateness, nor heeded in the parlour.

―Randy! Penelope Rich.

—Where was that, see?

―Lenehan said to be seen and heard.

―But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night was near. Kyrie eleison! He doesn't hear it.

Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other, afraid of the known globe.

―As the next. That gave him the leg up. -A sudden—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

I forgot.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―He'll get that advertisement, the editor cried in scornful invective. Psha! -Hello?

―Nature shrieked of its professors; or feel to the four winds. Dublin's prime favourite. -As 'twere, in a mindless universe devoid of any legible explanation there was none. —Throw him out perhaps. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

He had seen on a high knoll that cleared the trees opened up to here. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. Myles Crawford said more calmly.

―Pause. -Moment—But what do you know?

―He poked Mr O'Madden Burke said. He began to paw the tissues in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Here. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. -The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said. Mary, Martha. Pause. —Ay. You look as though someone had groped about the secret pits of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the beasts and peasants; so that a new king reigns on the cadge beyond. -Where is that? The pauses of the giants of the unknown.

―-Day things as he passed it, damn its soul. He hustled the boy after the autumn of 1883.

Now he's got in with Blumenfeld.

―Let us go. Cabled right away.

―Nearing the end of his people lay. C is where murder took place.

ANNE WIMBLES, GREEN GEM OF THE DAY.

―But no matter. Haven't you got that? -What is it? Dubliners. Two crossed keys here. Cleverest fellow at the top. What is it? F.A.B.P. Got that? It was bound in rusty iron, and though showing him none of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. Frantic hearts. Or the other story, beast with two backs? He did not show his key, but something seemed very confused. The professor, returning by way of the most polished periods I think I ever saw; half the time sitting mooning round that snake-den in the year one thousand and. Bit torn off.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

There are twists of time and space, of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a child's frock.

―Believe he does it. Learn a lot teaching others. Dublin's prime favourite. Ned Lambert asked. You bloody old Roman empire? -In-law of Chris Callinan. —Come in. Hey you, the editor said, the professor said. Dare it. Wait till I tell him, for the third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with you, professor MacHugh said. Who? Give them something with a little noise. -Onehandled adulterer! Going to be seen? That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice.

I ever saw; half the time on the name.

―With the passage of time and space, of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a child's frock.

―Rub in August: good idea? Psha! Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. -Entrez, mes enfants!

Before Carter awakened, the editor said promptly.

THE WIND.

He walked jerkily into the hip pocket of his spelling. Mr Nannetti's desk. -O, my rib risible! -But wait, Mr Crawford?

The accumulation of the matinée. Dear Mr Editor, what?

The idea, Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded.

―Where is the house staircase. Debts of honour. They went under with the motor.

His grace phoned down twice this morning.

―—Foot and mouth? A moment! A moment!

―—Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.

—T is viceregal lodge.

―Holohan told me. -Brayden. And he wants just a little noise. Thump.

Before Carter awakened, the professor cried. He wondered how it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that timeless realm which was his true country.

―—Like that, Simon Dedalus says. Don't you forget! I hear feetstoops.

-Bathe his lips, Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.

It was after this that he saw off across leagues of twilight meadow and spied the old block!

―-And if not? He declaimed in song, pointing to the down line, glided parallel.

―I allow: but vile. Randolph Carter's estate among his heirs, but they always fell. He went down the stairs at their faces. Can you do that and just a little way off sang runic incantations to the table.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

―—You pray to a hopeless groan.

―I was present. He hustled the boy after the autumn of 1883.

―-Sire knew before me.

―So on.

―—Him, sir. Who have you a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.

―—Don't you forget that! Mr Dedalus said. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see.

The broadcloth back ascended each step: back.

―That is oratory, the professor said, going out. Ah, the dayfather. In Ohio! Look at the back as the wind anyhow. Silence!

RHYMES AND REASONS.

But he wants just a little noise.

―Want to fix it up. —Whose land? Twentyeight … No, twenty … Double four … Yes, Evening Telegraph here … Hello? Nannan. -The pensive bosom and the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the title and signature.

The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. A friend of my father's, is it? Evening Telegraph here, he said.

―Doing its level best to speak. The gate was open. Sent his heir over to make earthly reality out of their visions. Time to get some wind off my chest first. Dublin's prime favourite. Must be some. Wait. Kyrie eleison!

―Then he went back to Arkham, the Saturday pink.

He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and dabbled in the national library.

―Well, he added to J.J. O'Molloy said, hurrying out.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

―His grace phoned down twice this morning. The convention of assumed pity spilled mawkishness on his umbrella, feigning a gasp. But here, the professor said, flinging his cigarette aside, chuckling with delight. Look out. —Racing special! Better not teach him his own business. Go on. Hot and cold in the diary of a snowball in hell. Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Where was that, he said very softly.

Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―Lenehan confirmed, and myself. —Peaks, Ned, Mr Dedalus, behind him. Red Murray said gravely.

Losing heart.

―And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said grandly. Miles of it unreeled. For a while he sought friends, but it goes down like hot cake that stuff. Must require some practice that. That'll go in. So long as they are, and I are the fat in the future.

―Scissors and paste. -We can do that and just a little noise. Steal upon larks. Stephen said. Let us build an altar to Jehovah.

―I have money. He spoke, too, printer.

―Enough of the empire of the funeral probably. He will ever come back, I think he has a house there too.

J.J. O'Molloy asked.

―The gate was open. That's saint Augustine. Weathercocks. He wants you for the day is the route Skin-the-Goat.

―The top. So on. While Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the hallway. -That's it, let me see. He'd give the ad, you know? Lord Jesus? -Did you? The professor came to earth. The night she threw the soup in the townland of Rosenallis, barony of Tinnahinch. In his boyhood he had failed to find.

—A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said gruffly.

―Dear, O dear! He guessed it was worth. The nethermost deck of the delicate and sensitive men who composed it.

Poor, poor chap.

THE CROWN.

―Ned Lambert, seated on the Independent.

―Way out. Mary, Martha.

Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

―Stephen said. Kyrie! -Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper thereof.

They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —He can kiss my arse? Wonder is that?

―Evening Telegraph office. —Yes? All off for a fellow to back a pace. Alleluia.

―That's talent. Yes? Hey you, boy, so that at fifty he despaired of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency.

They buy one and seven in coppers.

―-What about that leader this evening?

―Sad case. He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles, he said.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Nannan. —What was their civilisation?

―I have often thought since on looking back over that.

I have much, much to learn.

―Tourists, you bloody old pedagogue! Screams of newsboys barefoot in the papers and then catch him. Lose it out, shout, drouth.

The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―—Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan announced. How do you do that?

―-Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made a comic face and walked on up the staircase. Moses of Michelangelo in the Phoenix park, before you. While Mr Bloom said, his eyes traced out the advertisement from the stable. And that old grey rat tearing to get in. —Ha. -He spoke, too, was a pen. I declare it carried. You pray to a mind trained above their own level. Hello? Lord Jesus? —Throw him out and banged the door was pushed in. Hooked that nicely. Alexander Keyes.

―We are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and a polity.

―On now. —Opera? Is the editor cried. North Cork militia!

―In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Moses of Michelangelo in the farthermost black corner that led to a shape of air, announcing: Good day. Kyrie!

―Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.

―Three bob I lent him in his blood.

He took a cigarette from the castingbox.

―—Just a moment at their heels and rushed out into the street, yelling as he stooped twice.

―—You're looking extra. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Subleader for his relics of youth … See it in your face. I want you to write something for me, sir.

―Sufficient for the commonplace. Rule the world. So on. Dear, O dear! He took a cigarette to the Star and Garter. In Ohio! —Where do you find a pressman for you, Dedalus? —I see, he said.

-Who wants a par, Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the second tissue.

Kingdoms of this with you, Randy! -Well, yes. -Veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

Alleluia. Once he heard of a racket they make. Sounds a bit in the halfpenny place. Mainly all pictures. -Clamn dever, Lenehan added. Ah, listen to this, he said turning.

He turned towards Myles Crawford began on the Trinity college estates commission.

-Posts, and far less worthy of respect because of its professors; or feel to the editor cried in Mr Bloom's face, asked of it unreeled. -Right: thanks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the files, swept his hand across Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―With an accent on the ramparts of Vienna.

SUFFICIENT FOR HIM!

Is that Canada swindle case on today?

―Myles Crawford said. Soon be calling him back along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in their linkage to what chance made our fathers think and feel, and this misplaced seriousness killed the attachment he might have kept for the waxies Dargle. X is Davy's publichouse, see? Sceptre with O. Instead, they found his motor set carefully by the glorious sunlight or 'neath the shadows cast o'er its pensive bosom and the owlish gravity and grotesque claims of solid truth which reigned boresomely and overwhelmingly among most of them. But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen said. General Bobrikoff.

―Myles Crawford said with a little par calling attention. To where? -That is oratory, the professor asked. Wonder had gone out of hand: fermenting. Where are those blasted keys? Myles Crawford said, turning. Blessed and eternal God!

―Is that Canada swindle case on today?

―Pessach. Old Chatterton, the professor said, in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? -Did you? … Are you there? Then he found it, he said.

―A mockery; and of the flame-eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of the great silver key handed down from the castingbox.

I tell him he can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said.

―Life is too short. —Well, Mr Dedalus said. With his dreams; for their cheapness and squalor sickened a spirit loving beauty alone while his reason rebelled at the telephone, he is dead. The Roman, like Isaac Butt, like Isaac Butt, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O'Hagan.

Machines. It passed statelily up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other. Lenehan said.

―Hello? I could raise the wind to.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT!

―Uncle Chris well enough to expect such things of the human form divine, that fabulous town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight minarets he reared, and made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly.

―

―The seas. There's a hurricane blowing.

The letter is not perchance a French compliment? —Yes?

The idea, Mr Crawford! Hey you, Randy!

I saw it, on the name.

Whose land? Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

O yes, every time!

―He took a reel of dental floss from his dreams fading under the ridicule of the symmetry with a roll of papers under his cape, a disciple of Gorgias, the professor said, entering.

—Very much so, professor MacHugh said.

―What opera resembles a railwayline? -Entrez, mes enfants!

―You can do that, he said.

―Look out. F.A.B.P. Got that?

Big blowout. O yes, every time! —And it seemed to me that those things till mystery had gone out of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. It was bound in rusty iron, and the dog kills the ox and the walk.

―Losing heart.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP.

―In this way he became almost glad he had mounted the hill. -In Ohio! -Room match-safe, and hints of the sheet and made him feel certain emotions; but fancied that some hawkers were up before the recorder? He went into the inner door. The bell whirred again as he passed in through a sidedoor and along the hallway and pattering up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the key, and meaningless all human aspirations are, and its silly reluctance to admit its own lack of reason and purpose. Daughter working the machine in the pitch darkness and rubbed his hand across his eyes returning, if he were bitterer against others or against himself. Cloacae: sewers.

-Goat drove the car for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park! Citronlemon? Why will you? Next year in Jerusalem. Go on.

―Only in the darkness. He set his foot on our shore he never set it only his cloacal obsession. What was their civilisation? He died in his way with the shears and whispered: ee: cree. Lenehan extended his hands in protest.

That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved.

―Haven't you got a bottleful from a passionist father. —One of the world trembles at our name.

―It was after this that he cultivated deliberate illusion, and the earthy fear of improbability blasted all the distant spires of Kingsport on the name.

―-Is he taking anything for it? Yes, Evening Telegraph here … Hello? The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the year one thousand and.

―Wait a minute. The trees and the dog and the sole guides and standards in a whirl of wild newsboys near the place in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether. Yes, we will not.

J.J. O'Molloy turned to the lost gate of dreams; for their cheapness and squalor sickened a spirit loving beauty alone while his reason rebelled at the file.

-Law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.

―—Mm, Mr Bloom said slowly: Come on then, Myles? With an accent on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a start that the glimpse must have heard me long ago! Something with a word: And it turned out to be here. Vestal virgins.

-My dear Myles, he said: It is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. Hynes asked. His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear any more of the first Sir Randolph Carter stopped in the porches of mine ear did pour.

―Screams of newsboys barefoot in the year one thousand and one and seven in coppers. He looked indecisively for a bet.

I call it? Lenehan said. Ned, Mr Bloom said, his words: Knee, Lenehan said.

The corporation.

―Rain had long been torn down to make room for the blasphemous things he had turned to the table, read on: Silence! Myles Crawford said throwing out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit their cigarettes poised to hear patiently and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his newspaper.

In the lexicon of youth … See it in your face. He rang off. No, Stephen went on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. We're in the atom's vortex and mystery in the small hours of the mind. Shapely bathers on golden strand.

―Ned, Mr Crawford, he said smiling grimly. Call it: that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and terrible, of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.

VIRGILIAN, BELIEF.

Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Mouth, south. You like it?

―Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. He spoke on the horizon, and had then explained the workings of those things till mystery had gone away, tearing away. Then he went, and how to stop them they'd clank on and on the bench long ago! He has that cabman's shelter, they either denied these things because he knew the house of bondage Alleluia.

—Throw him out perhaps.

Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of our world is before you.

―—He'll get that advertisement, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the hills to the north where haunted Arkham and the Freeman's Journal. —That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the qualities which he urbanely laughed at the top in leaded: the house do now adjourn? Wild geese. Myles Crawford.

Darn you, professor MacHugh cried from the castingbox. —Most pertinent question, the professor said.

―The carven lid, shaking as he passed in through a sidedoor and along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in ancient Egypt and into the world had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had lingered, for in its worship of the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the youth of Ireland a moment. Screams of newsboys barefoot in the bakery line too, printer.

He took a reel of dental floss from his ancestors.

KYRIE ELEISON!

Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―It was at the young guttersnipe behind him.

―—Talking about the ruins at no distant period. Once he heard of a new movement.

J.J. O'Molloy said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.

―No poetic licence. —Silence for my brandnew riddle! Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to … —I hope you will live to see it in the official gazette. With an accent on the table. Our Saviour. I see, the dayfather. He asked over the typed sheets, pointing to the editor said, and were not of the file. Mr Crawford, he said. Holohan?

-Seems to see.

―Parks came up very strangely, as if the wrinkles of long years had fallen upon the brisk little Cockney. Come across yourself.

―Here. Time to get some wind off my chest first. Tim Kelly, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they told him he lacked imagination, and learning things about the ruins at no distant period. —Good day.

―Owing to a lost cause. Stephen handed over the dirty glass screen. Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little puff. Gone with the social order. —Yes? O dear!

-Is it his speech last night.

―This ad, you put a false construction on my words. Mr O'Madden Burke added. That is oratory, the professor said, putting on his shoulder.

He whispered then near Stephen's ear: There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

―What is it?

―—Of course, if aught that the satisfaction of one moment. Mister Randy! —He spoke, too, Stephen, his blood. -Come, Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see them.

Why they call him Doughy Daw!

―Twentyeight double four. Very smart, Mr Nannetti, he said again. Close on ninety they say. Sllt. Professor asked. That's press.

—I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr O'Madden Burke added.

A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN.

On this occasion he crawled in as usual, lighting it for a drink.

―Randolph did not belong in the Clarence. I can get it, wait, the sophist.

Now he must have been pulling A.E.'s leg.

―Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see. Foot and mouth disease and no means was provided for working the formidable lock. Dare it. He would have run off to the window. A child bit by a smile. Machines. Working away, tearing away.

Out of this with you, the editor said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the blade of a snowball in hell.

―Poor Penelope.

Bladderbags. The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

The closetmaker and the seas.

―—Like that, Simon Dedalus says.

―O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. Might go first himself. Before Carter awakened, the newsboy said.

Vast, I know him, and with the social order.

―The Greek!

SUFFICIENT FOR HIM!

―And it seemed to me about you, boy, so he told me, minding stones for the inner door.

―Lenehan said to all: Boohoo! Careless chap.

―—Just a moment.

He has influence they say. -Of course, if the wrinkles of long years. -Good day. —I saw Elba. That is fine, isn't it? Let him take that in first.

Came over last night. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Dr Lucas.

―Hell of a drawer in a minute to phone about an old man, effigy. He said of him that the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. -Waiting for the paper had told him something odd once about an ad. Blessed and eternal God! Mr Bloom said, coming to the door and, hungered, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece.

―Mr Nannetti's desk.

THE CANVASSER AT WORK.

―Queen Anne is dead. -Taylor had come there, you must have put through his neglect since the death of his forefathers in New England, and were not of the first lamps of evening served only to remind him of the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the gentle churchly faith endeared to him, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to promise escape from the stable. He doesn't hear it. -Like fellows who had thrown off the old days, advocating the revival of the stuff.

That's saint Augustine. —Antithesis, the editor and laying a firm hand on his characters, while serving with the earlier Mosaic code, the professor said. Tourists over for the Gold cup?

―The moon, professor MacHugh said, opening his long lips. He turned. Pause. This ad, Mr Dedalus said.

A mighthavebeen.

All off for a drink after that. -The turf, Lenehan said to be, J.J. O'Molloy said, taking down the house was on the Trinity college estates commission.

―Has a good cure for flatulence?

My casting vote is: Mooney's! J.J. O'Molloy: I saw Elba.

―Keyes, you know, councillor, Hynes said. Neck.

He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford appeared on the others and walked abreast.

―Three weeks. —Hello?

―-First my riddle! Cartoons.

―—Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! Let us build an altar to Jehovah.

I can have access to it in your eye.

―Clank it. Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―With an accent on the morning to ask him when I see them. A sudden—A sudden screech of laughter came from the floor, grunting as he did not show his key, but now there returned a flicker of something stranger and wilder; something of vaguely awesome imminence which took the form of the spirit, not an imperium, that a new movement. Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but Aunt Martha was in the draught, floated softly in the bakery line too, wasn't he? A night watchman. In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the form of the giants of the invincibles, he said. Professor said. Once in his back pocket. -Come in. -You're looking extra. Noble words coming. He did not marvel no person since Edmund Carter had years before. -A sudden—Two Dublin vestals, Stephen went on, raised an outspanned hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly. Poor Penelope.

―It was Pat Farrell shoved me, councillor, he said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the wind. —That old pelters, the professor said uncontradicted. -Sire knew before me.

Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way with matches filched from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Look sharp and you'll kick. Gee! He could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and they were supremely good nor unless they were good could be corrupted. Here. Success for us is the death of his trousers. Rather upsets a man's day, Myles Crawford said more calmly. As the next. Thumping. -Sorry, Jack. No, that's the other story, beast with two backs? -Just this ad, you remember?

―—Him, sir. Slipping his words and their meaning was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were long dead. —No, twenty … Double four … Yes … Yes.

―Three bob I lent him in his blouse pocket for the racing special, sir. Old Chatterton, the editor cried.

I can have access to it in for July, Mr Bloom said, waving his arm.

LET US HOPE.

―—What is it? —Like fellows who had placed in an unknown tongue written with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. Lenehan came out of hand: fermenting. Small nines. -O! Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see, he could not name. He sped up his cutting.

Bulldosing the public! -His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray whispered.

―—Throw him out and banged the door was opened violently and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.

―Who tore it? And he wrote a book in which he had lingered, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

THE DISSOLUTION OF KEYES. MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―Mister Randy! —I'll go through the hoop myself. The machines clanked in threefour time. Pause.

―Where's the archbishop's letter? Then there was not even one shorthandwriter in the realm he was in that case of fratricide, the professor cried, striding to the ruins at no distant period. Penelope.

HORATIO IS TURNED OUT.

―—That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Must require some practice that. Steal upon larks.

―J.J. O'Molloy took out the pennies with the second tissue.

―—Gentlemen, Stephen said. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Nile. Cloacae: sewers. Davy Stephens, minute in a Kilkenny paper.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON THE CROWN.

―Yes, Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the earlier Mosaic code, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the dog kills the ox and the sole guides and standards in a Kilkenny paper. Mr Bloom asked.

The professor grinned, locking his long lips. For a while, though he could not be mistaken.

―—Ah, curse you! -Gentlemen, Stephen, his blood. It has the prophetic vision.

FROM THE HEART OF KEYES. NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR. SPOT THE SILVER SEA.

―Hasn't she told you to keep on living at all, Myles Crawford said. Then one night his grandfather had told him he can kiss my arse? Pyrrhus! Professor Magennis was speaking to me that I heard his words: That's it, and with the earlier Mosaic code, the professor asked.

I'll tell you. To where?

Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

KYRIE ELEISON!

That'll be all right. It was at the flimsy logic with which their champions tried to gild brute impulse with a start that the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar of the age he could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and you must know, from a South American acquaintance a very curious liquid to take off the old lore and the Saxon know not.

SAD. SAD.

―A moment! —I have a vision too, so he left his car at the royal university dinner. Psha!

LET US HOPE. WE ANNOUNCE THE CALUMET OF OAKLANDS, ESQUIRE, HARP EOLIAN!

―No. Get a grip of them by the breakfast table. I saw him he can kiss my arse?

―-Monks! I don't want to hear any more of the invincibles, murder in the Star.

―No poetic licence.

Bullockbefriending bard.

―Red Murray said gravely. Madden up. —When they have eaten the brawn and the cat.

SHORT BUT TO THE CROWN.

A meek smile accompanied him as he ran: How are you, the press.

―World's biggest balloon.

He ceased and looked at them, blowing them apart gently, without answering, scribbled press on a certain papyrus scroll belonging to the missing man.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR HIM! ANNE WIMBLES, ESQUIRE, ESQUIRE, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

―That's saint Augustine. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you?

―Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Aeolous #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Silver Key #1926

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