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bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years

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The Dragon Egg (Parts 19-25)

Another set of chapters for @secrettunnelatla’s event.

Chapter 19 Leather For Sequin

She should be eating better, should be better hydrated, should bathe more, should exercise more, should be sleeping better. She finds it harder to do these things at all, much less to an optimal degree. Sleeping is especially hard, having favored doing so on her belly. It helps little that the baby seems to be particularly active when she is trying to sleep with its kicks and squirms. She still can’t get used to it, she doesn’t think she will. It leaves her feel queasier than the morning sickness ever had.

Even if she were as physically comfortable as possible she doesn’t think she’d sleep. Her mind is stuck on Seicho and on all of the articles she has scrolled through during the past few days. Articles that drag her name through the mud and articles that praise Blue Talon for things she should be credited for. She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, hands clasped over her belly. She finds the baby’s foot--or maybe it is a hand--and rubs over the spot, a fruitless attempt to get her to settle down. All the while her mind runs in circles over the headline, ‘Fire’s Reign’s Fire Lord Ozai Denounces Pregnant Daughter’. She didn’t think that he would so publicly condemn her. She should have; he does, afterall, have an image to protect. As if he hasn’t already tarnished it with his binge drinking. She imagines that Zuko is probably getting a good kick out of it. She brings her rubbing to a stop and closes her eyes.

She gets little sleep, but enough of it that she has to be woken by Zhao. She doesn’t know why he bothers, it isn’t as though she will make use of the day. But the man is annoyingly persistent, refusing to leave the living room until she declares that she has to get dressed.

She slips into one of Koemi’s dresses. Eventually she is going to have to pester Zhao to help her buy at least one outfit that suits her aesthetic more, his wife’s attire is absolutely gaudy. Today’s disaster is orange with a sunflower print, which might not have been so horrible if the sunflowers weren’t purple and pink in color. She feels more ridiculous than usual when she emerges into the kitchen.

“I have some good news for you.” Zhao smiles.

“You’re going to take me back to that volcano you hated so much and pitch me into it.” She mumbles.

The man looks horror-stricken. If she weren’t so low she certainly would have laughed.

“I managed to get you a record deal under a new label.”

“Please tell me that it isn’t Uncle Iroh’s sketchy basement recording studio.”

“It isn’t. It is another label that I work for.”

“And which one is that?”

“WSLSE.”

Apparently her reaction isn’t satisfactory.

“Wan Shi Tong’s Library Of Sound Entertainment.” He clarifies. “You left a good impression on the man. Raava has also been speaking fondly of you.” He slaps a print out onto the table and pushes it to her. “You have been visiting the wrong websites.”

Her brows crinkle. “You have no right to…”

“Monitor my children’s browsing activity?” He asks. “My children still listen to Happy Hei Bai and my wife doesn’t follow music news. That leaves one person who would search up Blue Talon over and over again.”

She folds her arms. “What of it?”

“You’re making yourself miserable.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “All of this talent is just...confined to a couch.” He pauses. “Which is why I took it upon myself to get you signed to a new label…”

“With what band, Zhao!”

“You’re a soloist now.”

“A soloist?” She sputters.

“You don’t exactly mesh well with people.”

No doubt he had overheard her screeching at Seicho. “And yet, I can’t seem to do without them.”

He chuckles. “That’s where we disagree. You have a divine voice, to have it buried under wailing guitars and pounding drums is a shame. The idea I pitched is to have you go acapella and truly showcase your voice for everything that it is.”

Azula’s face pales. “In other words, there’s no room for error. Mistakes are easily detectable.”

“You aren’t one for mistakes and error.”

She frowns rather deeply and gestures to her bump. Ever the gentleman Zhao tiptoes his way back a statement or two. “You won’t be alone, you’ll have a team of fantastic producers and a very talented manager.”

Azula inhales through her nose.

“I dropped Blue Talent to focus on this new project…”

“Me.” Somehow she manages to frown more deeply still. “You dropped a band with a perfectly flawless trajectory for me. Since when do you take risks?”

“Since I found someone worth placing a bet on.”

“That’s what I am to you, a bet. A product.”

“A child.” Zhao cuts in. “I’ve known you since you were as young as my own little ones.”

She massages the bridge of her nose. “Zhao, Audio of Agni is a battle of the bands.”

His smile falters. “I am working on that.”

“Spirits, Zhao! What’s the point of putting me back in the studio if--”

“You don’t need Audio of Agni to make it big.” He mutters. “I don’t know what it is with you youths and hinging your entire careers on it. We didn’t have battle of the bands when I got into this industry. The Tui La’s didn’t part-take until the fourth event.”

“Zhao…”

He cuts her off once more, the audacity of the man. “We’re going to make a name for you regardless of Audio of Agni. And we’ll do it on raw talent alone.”

“Acapella artists never do well.”

“Acapella artists seldom do well. Most of them are generic. Their voices don’t stand out without instruments.”

“I’m known for metal music…”

“And you’re capable of ballads and operatics. With this project we’re going to put emphasis on your clean vocals. Once that takes off, we can take more risks--you can try doing acapella with those screaming vocals…”

This time she cuts him off. “What about piercings and tattoos says, ‘acapella and opera artist’?”

“Your vocals don’t have to match your looks. But if you must have it that way, we can swap out some of your piercings for less...bold ones. We can cover the tattoo. Your pregnancy might help with this new image.”

She cringes though she isn’t entirely opposed to a more elegant style of dress; she enjoys the glitz and glimmer every now and again. But, Agni, she can’t pull it off not when she has let herself go like this.

“Your first session will be tomorrow, I’ll send my wife shopping with you, you could use a wardrobe for photoshoots and what not.”

She only agrees so that she won’t have to beg the man to buy her better clothes.

Chapter 20 Dragon Tongue

It is daunting to see one of her monikers in the headlines again. To see it there in a more neutral, speculative light. ‘Blue Talon Vocalist Flies Again as Dragon Tongue’. She wishes that she could feel something other than dread, a growing sense that she is only building up momentum for a mightier, more embarrassing fall than her first one.

The announcement of her new single is daunting. And attempting to record a whole new extended play before Audio of Agni and the birth of her baby is twice that. Hama is adamant that she should be taking it much easier, especially since finding out that her baby might be born with an unusually low weight.

She thinks that she should be taking it slower. And yet she can’t afford anymore slacking. She has already wasted so much time sulking and moping and making a deeper mess of herself.

And so she is in the recording booth again and with new material. Material and lyrics that are so much rawer. So much more painful to sing through. They are confessions of shame and inadequacy. Laments of betrayal. And ballads of loneliness. And she can’t hide any of the pain behind indistinguishable growls or loud guitar shreds. It is all crisp and vivid. Open. Naked. She isn’t sure that she wants to do this anymore. Not when every session brings her closer to tears. Closer to a total meltdown.

Every session reminds her of what she lost. Every session reminds her that what she is doing now is nothing compared to what she could have been doing. Every session reminds her of Mai and TyLee and of Seicho.

And when her mind isn’t ailing, her body is aching. Aching in ways that she hadn’t anticipated. Her feet hurt so bad, they hurt when she is sitting down. Her ankles are swollen--Hama assures her that this is normal. As normal as the persistent ache in her back and the odd nose bleeds and congestion that she gets every now and then. On those congested days, she can’t even work.

On other days she finds herself short of breath. Her growing baby is pushing against her lungs. On those days her voice is so weak and breathy. She records regardless. Perhaps she would have allowed herself a break if Zhao weren’t so adamant that the breathy quality gives her a one of a kind sound. An ethereal sound.

She is inclined to disagree. She just sounds weak and weird. She pushes through, she always pushes through.

She promises herself that, whatever she does, she will not read the critiques of her new work. Her self-esteem is already in tatters. They talk more about her pregnancy and what it is doing to her body than they do her work. In that regard she almost hopes that Dragon Tongue is such a flop that it will eclipse that sort of talk.

It is well into the evening. The studio gets so much quieter in the evening. And in the silence her loneliness is emphasized. She remembers late nights of purposely poor vocals and drinking. Of idle chatter between songs. She remembers the crashing of a drumsets when Chan forgets to watch where he steps. She remembers stupid cover songs when they had time to kill. She remembers laughing. She remembers happiness. She remembers friendship.

Chapter 21 A Phoenix In The Winter

His world is in a perpetual winter. A little is no longer enough. He no longer needs food or love or inspiration. He no longer needs a band. He only needs a white winter and his presents come in pouches and needles.

He is losing his senses; of time, of himself, of everything really. One day is the same as the next and none of them bring him any closer to true stardom. His bursts of artificial energy only result in disjointed lyrics and half-assed ideas.

There is no organization and no real attempt to turn them into full songs. He has missed shows to the point of his tour being cancelled. It is so much money down the drain that even Iroh has turned his head. And when the word ‘rehab’ falls from his lips, Zuko runs. Perhaps not literally, but he hasn’t spoken to his uncle since, snubbing all attempts at conversation.

He is perpetually twitchy and agitated and Iroh makes a mistake. He enters the room, guns blazing, “Zuko, get in the car.” It is firm but not firm enough for him to put the needle down. The man sighs, “alright, nephew…”

The minute his hands take him by the shoulders, he is on the ground and Zuko is standing over him seething. “Don’t tell me what to do! What are you, anyways!? A fat, lazy, washed up rockstar! I don’t need advice from you!” But he does, he needs it more than ever. He yanks Iroh up and drags him to the door. He knows that uncle is holding back. He would be flat on his own ass if he wasn’t.

“Zuko, don’t do this. Let me help you get off of this path.” He hears as the door slams.

He is already too far down this path. His only option is to keep on walking. Walking down his cracked and lonely, frigid path. It is desolate now that drumsets, guitars, and microphones no longer clutter the street. He doesn’t pass many people. It is just he and the snow and it is falling thicker than ever.

Iroh hasn’t dropped him from the label yet, but he isn’t making anything of it and so it comes as no surprise to him when TyLee informs him that she would like to try her hand at the school’s gymnastics squad. He lets her go because she can have something. She can make something of herself.

He is less surprised when Mai declares that she is going to write a few poems or, “maybe just focus on school.”

It is fine with him, he doesn’t want to drag them under with him. And so he sits alone in the dark, huddled in a corner rocking back and forth, enveloped in a drug induced anxiety. A state of panic and paranoia that he can’t seem to stave off.

He is deep into it when his phone rings. “We need to talk.” Says the voice on the other end.

“Not right now, Mai. I can’t talk right now, Mai.”

She exhales long and audibly. “Yeah, that’s just it, Zuko. You never want to talk. You never want to do anything…” she backtracks some. “You only want to do one thing. You’re high right now aren’t you?”

“Yes...no?” He doesn’t remember. He isn’t sure if he is coming down or in the middle of a bad trip. “Mai? Mai, are you there.”

“I was there, Zuko. But I’m not now. Not anymore. I can’t be.” The line goes dead.

Phoenixes aren’t meant for snow. It is no wonder he is dying.

.oOo.

The school has been closed for hours now. The windows are as dark as he feels within. He scales his way up the roof. Up to the place where his hopes were born and discussed. He can practically taste the cigarette smoke, the anticipation, the energy that came with a dream in the making.

In its wake is a stale taste, he will drown it with another. He pops the cap off of his beer and gives it a good chug, music blasts loudly and aggressively through his headphones. He drapes them around his neck so that he may hear the cars below and the wind around him. It rustles his flannel shirt.

It’s a nice night, clear and warm. Spangled by a vast array of stars that he can’t seem to reach no matter how high he climbs, no matter how far he reaches. He lays back, he wishes he could relax but he doesn’t have enough coke in his system for it. He sits up for another good drink and then another until he feels a buzz. He doesn’t have enough bottles to take him any further. He supposes he doesn’t really need the help, he has his own woes and hopelessness to propel him the rest of the way.

He stands up and makes his way to the very edge of the roof. He swings his arms back and forth in preparation. He takes a deep breath, the song drones on. He takes another breath. Swings his arms. He’ll finish the song and that’s it. Then he’ll take flight.

He inhales deeply as the song fades out. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out, inclined to throw it as hard as he can; at this point, Mai can go fuck herself. But it isn’t Mai’s name that decorates the screen. It isn’t TyLee’s. It isn’t even Iroh’s.

He doesn’t know why, but he picks up the phone. For a moment he only hears breathing, breathing and perhaps sniffling. It takes him a moment to realize what he is hearing, but before he can make anything of it, she speaks, “Zuzu?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Zuzu, I really need someone. I need you.”

Chapter 22 The Dragon & The Phoenix

His chest constricts and he grits his teeth. “I need someone too.” He turns off his music and kicks the empty bottles, they shatter upon the pavement below. “Where are you?” The line goes dead and a text comes through.

By all means, he shouldn’t be driving, but he climbs behind the wheel of Iroh’s car. Spirits, he hopes that he doesn't wreck it. Iroh is already furious.

Truth be told he hadn't known what to expect. Throughout the drive images flashed through his mind, each of them involving a drunkenly enraged Ozai and Azula huddled in the corner. When he reaches the studio he does fine her in the corner. But she is alone.

Alone and very heavily pregnant. He thinks that he remembers reading about that somewhere but, like many other things, it had slipped his mind. For a moment he thinks that he got the wrong address, he doesn’t recognize her with her belly so big and her expression so tired and defeated.

Even if he did have the wrong address, he wouldn’t have left. He couldn’t have. He can’t remember the last time he had sobered up so abruptly. With fumbling fingers he ties his headphones tightly around her arm just above her wrist.

Her other hand comes to squeeze his own wrist. “You don’t have to, it’s not that deep.” She mumbles softly.

“Not that deep!?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I changed my mind. It’s...it’s really not that deep, I just need a bandage.” She gestures vaguely towards the door. “There’s a first aid kit in the lobby.”

He gets up to leave and hesitates, casting a look back at her.

“Go on, Zuzu. I’m not going to do anything else. I...I don’t want to die.”

He wishes that he could say the same. He comes back with the first aid kit and begins bandaging her wrist only to have her slap his hand away with a curt, “I can do it myself.”

He scoffs, “then what the fuck am I here for?”

She flinches. “Nothing, never mind. You can go.”

He rubs his hands over his face. He hasn’t spoken to her in so long, he’d forgotten how she can be. Even when she’s asking for help she can’t swallow her pride. Even when she’s asking for help she’s intolerable. He almost does leave but he thinks that if he does she might just change her mind a second time. He sighs, “why did you ask me to come here if you don’t want my help?”

She holds her silence until he is on the very edge of frustration. “I want you, Zuzu. I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“So I’m your last resort?”

She nods. At least he can commend her for her honesty.

“I think that I need to talk to you specifically.”

His brows furrow, “why do you think that?”

“Because you would understand.”

He tilts his head.

“What failure is like.” She elaborates.

He feels as though he has been punched in the gut. “Seriously, you called me here to insult me? I don’t need this shit right now, okay!”

She shakes her head vigorously. “I--no, that’s not what I meant.” She rubs her hands over her face. He cringes at the smear of blood she leaves behind. He doesn’t think that she has noticed. If she has, she doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

“What else can you mean?”

She thinks for a moment, “Empathy. I’m empathizing?”

He has to laugh. He face falls. It is his turn to clarify, “we’re a pathetic duo, aren’t we?”

She nods, “very.” She wipes the remaining tears from her eyes. “I suppose that it’s the rockstar lifestyle. The parts they don’t talk about…”

“Or it’s the father that raised us.” He grumbles. For once she doesn’t protest this. He wonders just what the man did to her. “What happened? You were doing so good.”

“So were you.” And with a shake of her head she adds, “no I wasn’t.”

“Neither was I…” He trails off.

“What happened…” she repeats the question back to him and then she rubs her good hand over her baby bump.

“Right. Yeah. That’ll do it.” He frowns. “Chan’s?”

“How’d you know?”

“He’s a total tool.” Zuko shrugs.

She laughs, a very quiet and sad sort of chuckle but a laugh no less. “What about you, Zuzu. I haven’t heard a thing about From Ashes To Phoenix since…”

“Since I went berserk and got arrested at my own concert? Yeah. Because there hasn’t been a thing to talk about since.”

“Not even one new song?”

“There’s no time for songs when you’re...when you’re…”

“On drugs?” She finishes. “Zuko, what happened to us? How did this happen?”

“It just did, I guess.” He frowns. It is much more complex than that. “Are you still with father, I’m sure that Iroh wouldn’t mind letting you stay with us. He probably needs a break from me.”

“I’m staying with Zhao. He got me a new record deal and…”

And Zuko is once again furious. Even when she’s falling, she’s still on her way up. She still has something going for her. She’s probably still getting good publicity. Hell, even bad publicity can take her far. It’s all about the spotlight and she decided to open her wrists. And with a baby in her belly. Perhaps that is why she changed her mind so quickly. Perhaps it is why she had made her initial decision. The anger passes as quickly as it had come over him. “I’m angry all the time.” He doesn’t mean to cut her off, it just falls from his lips. He hasn’t really gotten a chance to get it out.

“I can tell.” She replies. “It’s in your eyes.” She seems to hum to herself. “But you have Mai,TyLee, and Iroh, right?”

He shakes his head. “They’re all disappointed, mad, both?”

“Everyone, except Zhao--I guess--is angry with me.”

“For being pregnant?”

“For being...unbearable. You don’t even want to be here, Zuzu. I can tell.” “I don’t want to be anywhere, actually. It has nothing to do with you. Really, it doesn’t.” He pauses. “I was about to jump.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I was interrupted.”

She nods and then her eyes widen, only briefly, with understanding. “Why didn’t you call me?”

He almost tells her that it is because she is her. Instead he responds, “I didn’t think about it, I guess. Drugs do that.”

She nods again. And then her eyes light up. “You can record things with me! I won’t be alone anymore and you’ll be able to get back on track!”

“I can’t focus on music right now.”

And her face falls again.

“But you can still talk to me. I can go with you to appointments.” He offers.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Can I come with you to rehab?”

He rubs his hands over his face. “I guess. If Uncle is still willing to take me there.”

“He’s uncle. Of course he’ll still take you.”

Chapter 23 Life In The Embers

She feels both better and worse all at once. In a sense it had been liberating to let her emotions flood over, to get them out, to let herself reach the very bottom. There is a sense of calm that follows in its wake. A sense of calm that has compelled her to call Seicho and ask her if she could meet her in the recording studio. Only after the girl had said that she would think about it did Azula send her, her schedule for that week.

At the very least, she can talk to Zuko now. Even if much of their conversation has been getting him through the first stages of withdrawal. Truthfully it was nothing like she had expected.There was no shaking, no vomiting nor sweating. If she didn’t know him she would say that he wasn’t going through withdrawals at all. But she does know him well enough to know that he isn’t himself.

It has been six days since he’d found her with her bleeding wrists and five days since she’d accompanied him to his first rehab visit. Five days since Iroh, for the first time, looked at her with care and trust. Five days since she realized that she might not be left on her own with this baby. Five days and she is due to check in on Zuzu, if only to intimidate him into keeping on track.

She removes her studio headphones, hangs them up on their designated rack, and exits the recording booth.

“Done for the day?” Zhao asks.

Azula nods, “I promised Zuzu that I would meet him at The Serpant’s Pass Cafe. I’m ahead of schedule anyhow.”

“Very ahead. You’re only a song away from a full setlist.” Zhao agrees. “How about you take the day off. If you’re up for it, I can try to get in touch with a director and we can discuss a music video. It doesn’t have to be fancy…”

“I think that simplicity will work well for this new sound.” Azula agrees. “We’ll talk, Zhao.”

For the first time in a while, she leaves the recording studio with a smile. A smile and a sense that things will come together as they used to. She slips her sunglasses over her eyes and makes her way across the street as hastily and discreetly a possible. People are paying her attention again and it comes in the form of photo op and autograph requests and an occasional paparazzi intrusion. For now she evades their lurking.

She finds Zuko sitting at the corner most table of the cafe’s patio, already well into an appetizer. She slips into her chair only to find that it is not an appetizer at all, but spicy wings. “You started eating without me?”

He shrugs, “want one?”

She shakes her head.

“But you love spicy food.”

“The baby doesn’t.” She frowns.

“Well I already ordered the rest of our food.” He gestures to the waiter heading for their table with a rather absurd amount of platters. Between her pregnancy and his withdrawal cravings, she and him are a horrid duo in this regard. She thinks to question it only until Zuko begins tearing into his meal.

She rolls her eyes, “don’t be sloppy.” At least she can handle her liberal appetite with poise and grace.

“Don’tell me whadda do.” He grumbles through a mouthful.

She cringes. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He repeats himself. When he finally swallows the rest of his food he asks, “how have you been holding up.”

Azula sighs deeply, “I can’t breathe properly and I’ve had this annoying itch.”

“An itch.”

“On my belly.”

“Is that...normal?”

“Hama, my physician, says that it is. Something about skin expanding and dryness.” Nevermind the technicalities, the results are very mildly agitating. “And you, Zuzu?”

He frowns, “it’s hard Azula. You can’t even imagine.”

“You look better.”

“But I feel...restless and anxious. And depressed--I’m not sure if this is the drugs though.” He pauses. “I’m tired all the time and the nightmares don’t help.”

“What sort of nightmares?”

“They’re intense. Everyone is reminding me that I’m not going to amount to anything. Dad is always there. He...does things to me in these dreams. Worse than the real stuff.”

Azula nods.

“And Mai is there. So is TyLee, but she’s...weird. She contorts in ways that are crazy even for TyLee. I also had a dream that Aang, you remember him, right?”

“The neighbor kid with the big dog who liked to eat glue? I remember him, yeah. Why?”

“In one of my dreams he had these wild powers and there was this comet and Aang had to stop our father from using it to set the whole world on fire.”

Azula blinks, “Zuzu, there are corners of your mind that disturb me.”

He laughs. Admittedly it is nice to hear him laugh and nicer still to know that she has helped him laugh--a far cry from the distress she used to cause him.

“I suppose that I wouldn’t sleep easily either if I was dreaming about the glue kid getting superpowers.”

He laughs again. “Thanks for coming here, Azula. It’s nice to have someone to keep me company while I go through this.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Zuzu.” She roll her eyes. She knows that if he does and starts hitting the right cords that she’ll probably start weeping, a humiliating mess of chaotic hormones. “I suppose that I share the sentiment.” She taps her fingers nails against the tabletop, they have grown increasingly long as of late. “You should try to get in good graces with Mai and TyLee again.”

“So should you?” He quirks a brow.

“They’re your bandmates and you still have a chance if you get it together. You already have enough material for Audio of Agni, you just need some publicity. Good publicity.” She pauses. “Of course, you’ll need a band first.”

“Azula, I’m still going through withdrawals.”

“All the more reason to do it. You could use a distraction.”

“You’re a distraction.”

“A bigger distraction. I can’t be here all the time, I have doctor appointments and a career to keep on top of. I’ve only just started getting back on front pages…” for good reasons, she nearly adds, “I need to keep my momentum.”

“So you’re choosing your career over me.”

“I’m choosing my well-being, my baby’s well-being. I don’t really have many other options, a successful solo project is my best chance to provide for this baby.”

“Have you considered adoption?”

It comes like a slap to the face, though she doesn’t think that he means it as such. She bites back her initial scathing retort. “I’m not going through all of this discomfort, disowning, and humiliation just to give the baby away. It’s mine. I want her.”

Zuko lifts his hands, “alright, sorry.” He puts them back down. “I was just really hoping that you’d be here more. I know, I’m surprised too; you’re insensitive and kind of the worst.”

“You’re a funny man, Zuko.” She responds dryly. “I’m not going to abandon you, not when you’re this pathetic. I just think that you should have more support than just me.”

“Do you have any other support?”

“Seicho, hopefully.” She pauses and pushes her final plate aside. “I’d also like to speak with Mai and TyLee again.” She stands up and pushes her chair in.

“I’ll try to talk to them.”

“Make sure to mention that you’re in rehab and that you know you’re an asshole. The asshole bit is especially necessary with Mai.”

“I’ll call you and let you know how it goes?”

“It better go well.” She wishes herself the same luck.

.oOo.

Azula looks much better now, happier, healthier, stronger. There is a radiance about her, something subtle but still present. And it is no wonder; she is back in the press again and much of the headlines predict a groundbreaking and unexpected comeback. The boast of a fallen vocalist whose flame is rising again despite it all. Seicho wonders if the girl is even aware.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Seicho, it is nice to see you again.”

Seicho nods. “Sure, Azula.”

Her gait is rather awkward as she walks alongside her. It prompts Seicho to inquire, “are things going well with the baby?”

“Mostly, yes. Hama has a few concerns.”

“You look a lot better.” Seicho remarks.

“Ugg, if only I felt that way.”

It comes to Seicho then, that the girl is breathing quite heavily, “do you need me to slow down.”

Azula nods, “a little bit yes.”

Seicho chuckles and slings her arm over Azula’s shoulders. She wishes that the girl weren’t so endearing, maybe then she could have drawn her resentment out longer. As things are, Azula is quite precious with her semi-clumsy gait and that genteler twinkle in her eyes. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I would like you to consider not being angry with me anymore.”

Seicho bursts out laughing. “Azula, that is the worst peacemaking opener I have ever heard.”

“How am I supposed to do it?”

“‘I’m sorry that I went off on you for no reason’, would be a good way.”

Azula’s cheeks flush. Seicho thinks that hers might be growing pink as well. She’s adorable, unquestionably so. “I...don’t usually...apologize to people.”

“I can tell.”

Her entire face is red now.

“You’re doing pretty alright.

“Does that mean you are considering my proposal? To not be mad at me?”

Seicho rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s what it means.” That hopeful little smile seals the deal. “You wanna tell me about your new song ideas? This new concept is...different.”

“Do you like it?”

“I think that it suits you well.” Seicho replies. “You have a pretty voice. I didn’t realize that you had that kind of range. The breathing techniques are really bizarre but they sound neat.”

“Oh, those aren’t techniques. That is me suffering while I try to sing with this baby crushing my lungs.” Her eyes go wide for a flicker. “You’ve been listening to my new music?”

“N-no, well, it’s been on the radio so I couldn’t avoid it!”

She shakes her head, “you listened enough to be able to give me a review.”

“Fine, I’ve been listening to your new material. But I was still mad the whole time, okay? I was listening with resentment.”

Chapter 24

With a new digital album release and a highly anticipated music video in the works, Azula is growing confident again though Audio Of Agni still seems to be far out of her reach. If she makes the right moves and if her pregnancy doesn’t spring up any surprises, she might just be able to make it without the competition. It isn’t ideal and it is terribly frustrating, but at least she doesn’t feel so helpless anymore.

Mostly she feels drained and achy. Her sides stitch from time to time and her entire lower body is growing sore from carrying so much extra weight around. She exhales, she isn’t sure how much more of this she can take. Hama had warned her about the small contractions but they still take her by surprise every time.

They happen now, and when she could really use a break from them. She is just thankful that she is through with recording. From the looks of it, she will have to find a way to shoot the music video mostly sitting or laying. She has passed several ideas onto Zhao, her favorite being a trip to the local theater where she can perch herself on a stool and sing to an empty venue. They can make use of dramatic lighting and add glitter or glow effects electronically. It is simple and will rely on old time Noh theater aesthetics and a stunning costume. She anticipates that the mask will be the most expensive piece. The simpler, one location video will leave plenty of room in the budget for that.

She casts a look at the door. “They’ll be here soon.” Seicho assures her.

“But what if they decide not to come? Mai, TyLee, and I haven’t parted on good terms.” She rubs her hand over her belly.

“You’ve been helping Zuko out so much, you practically saved their band, how mad can they be?”

She isn’t sure that she wants to find out. Not that she has the chance to retract her invitation she hears a knock and climbs to her feet. Her bump lightly knocks against the table as she does so and she curses to herself. “I can get it, you know?”

Azula waves her hand dismissively. “I’m pregnant, not useless.”

.oOo.

Zuko hadn’t realized just how much a few weeks could change a person. Her cheeks are rosier and the bump is bigger still. In spite of it all, her look of prowess and determination has returned. She wears her pride as though it had never slipped from her grasp at all. Frankly, he hadn’t realized that it was truly missing until having seen it returned.

“Oh wow, you’re so big!” TyLee comments,clasps her hands, and holds them to her lips.

Azula’s face, already flushed lightly, grows redder still.

“How far along are you?” TyLee asks.

“Month six.” Azula huffs as she gestures them inside.

“Congratulations?” Mai quirks a brow.

She clears her throat, “thank you.”

He watches her make her way to her seat. She backtracks to fetch her water bottle and semi-clumsily saunters her way back to her seat.

“Still adjusting?” Mai asks.

“Constantly adjusting.” Azula grumbles before taking a drink. She rests her free hand on the bump. “You’re mostly done going through withdrawals, yes, Zuzu?”

He nods. “Sometimes I still really want to use again. Badly. It’s unbearable...it would be if I didn’t…”

“Take my advise and get back into the music industry? Yes, I am aware. You are welcome.” He has to laugh at her audacity, at least these days it is somewhat endearing. “You look a lot better Zuzu. Your eyes don’t have bags that reach to the floor anymore.”

“I don’t know if you’re trying to compliment me or insult me.”

“It’s a compliment, I’m saying that you don’t look like a walking corpse anymore.”

Somehow, he does feel a sense of pride in that. It is progress. Progress that he has made. Progress that he is still making. And she isn’t the only one who has noted these changes. Azula has certainly changed radically in the past few weeks, but he can’t deny that the changes in him have been just as dramatic even if they are less outwardly perceived. He does feel better about himself; he feels more inspired than ever, more creative and, for a change, it isn’t synthetic. It is all him, his mind, his...brilliance. He thinks that he can consider himself smart, at the very least he can consider himself not dumb.

She pulls out a pen and a sheet of paper. “So let’s start talking about music. I read over some of your new lyrics, they are rather solid they can just use some fine tuning and better penmanship, I don’t know what this is supposed to say.” She gestures to the worst of his chicken scratch.

He finds himself beaming regardless. She had given him a real compliment. He has written something worth singing. He could cry...

“Azula, can we just...be friends again first?” TyLee asks.

Her brows furrow, “you want to be friends again.”

TyLee smiles and nods. “To be honest, I don’t really even remember why we were fighting.”

“Because she kept picking on my boyfriend and working us to exhaustion.” Mai shrugs.

Azula’s expression darkens again.

“To be fair, she’s been working herself to exhaustion.” Zuko steps in.

She shrugs again, “I suppose that I don’t know many other people who work this hard six months in.”

“I have a lot that needs to be accomplished.”

“And you only have until battle of the bands to do it?”

“Solo artists can’t join.” She frowns, only to perk up again when adding, “but I’ve already written a setlist and a few ideas just in case.”

Zuko laughs, “of course you did.”

“Who is this?” TyLee points to Seicho.

She looks up from her phone, “I’m Azula’s girlfriend.”

“You are?” TyLee and Azula ask at once.

Seicho looks at Azula, “I thought that you knew that.”

“Azula is clueless.” Mai rolls her eyes. “You can take her on as many dates as you’d like, you can kiss her several times--”

“I have! Mostly in the recording booth between songs.” She declares.

“--And she still won’t put two and two together until you tell her that you’re dating.”

Seicho drapes her arm over Azula’s shoulder and pulls her closer. Her other hand reaches for Azula’s. “I go with her to her appointments too. I figured that she can pretend like I’m the baby’s father since Chan is an ass.”

“It’s Chan’s?” TyLee gasps. “He said that--”

“He lied. It is easier to make me out to be...dangerously promiscuous.”

“Oh Azula, I’m sorry.”

Azula offers only a dismissive wave. “Enough baby and drama talk. We need to start discussing music before the studio closes for the night. They lock up on Mondays for cleaning.”

.oOo.

All in all the night has been a success on a musical level and on a social level. The departure of Mai and TyLee is such a stark contrast to their last one. They part with an offer to team up with and do vocals for From Ashes To Phoenix should they make it to Audio Of Agni as well as an offer to invite her to game night at Iroh’s.

“I don’t know, card games, potato chips, and a super campy horror movie sound great!” Seicho declares. “Do you think that they’ll be down for basement tattoos?”

“Probably.” Azula answers nonchalantly. “Exactly how do you plan to get this past your parents? The last time I checked, they said that they didn’t want you hanging around some tramp.”

“They’re never home.” She shrugs. “And when they are, they don’t really pay much attention to me. They didn’t even know that I was a tattoo artist until I came home with a sleeve.”

“I see.” She replies. “Am I dropping you off at home or are you coming with me to Zhao’s place?”

“Zhao’s place! He makes a bitchin’ yakitori!”

Chapter 25 A Phone Call

If Iroh has an issue with the blearing music, he keeps it to himself. Azula reaches for another chip. “Hmmm...truth or dare, Azula?” She puts down the chip.

“Dare.”

“You’ve been picking dare all night!” She frowns, putting her hands on her hips.

“What can I say, I’m a daring person.”

“You just don’t want to tell the truth.” Seicho nudges her.

“I dare you to pick truth next time someone asks you to.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Mm mm, it’s not.” TyLee shakes her head, “we didn’t establish that rule when we were establishing the other rules.

“Truth or dare, Mai?”

“Dare.”

TyLee puffs out her cheeks. “You guys never pick truth!”

“I dare you to be the first one to get a tattoo tonight.”

“I’ll get one right now.” Mai shrugs. “I’ve had one on my mind for a while now.”

“Kickass! What can I get for you?” Seicho asks. “You can sketch it out while I get set up.” She leans in to kiss Azula on the forehead before getting up.

“Truth or dare, Zuko?”

He glances at TyLee before choosing dare.

“I dare you to…”

Azula leans over and whispers in her ear.

“I dare you to prank call Zhao.”

He punches Zhao’s number into the landline pinpad. “Hello, is this Zhao?”

Azula, Mai, and TyLee lean over his shoulder.

“Yes, this is Sokka. I am interested in getting a record deal.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, I’m nervous, I’ve never asked for a record deal before. But I have this great concept its...uh…” He looks at Azula. “It’s uh...okay, picture this, seven minutes of dog barks with occasional bursts of that noise you hear when you’ve lost TV signal.” He listens. “No, no! This is a totally serious pitch! I’ve even named the track it’s called, ‘Bark At The Static’ and I think that I’d be great touring with that guy who dresses up as a cabbage and Yodels.”

TyLee snickers.

The line goes dead and Azula sits down to finally have her chip. She dips it into the salsa.

“Okay, truth or truth, Azula?”

She rolls her eyes. “Truth number two.”

“Hmmm, do you miss being in Blue Talon.”

“A little, I suppose. I don’t think that I’d like to go back to them though. They lack integrity.” She scoffs. “They’re using my story to sell the band.”

“Your story?” Mai asks.

“I wrote about father before I was kicked out of the band.”

“I write about him too.”

“Yes, Zuzu, I’ve been helping you write those songs.”

“Right.”

“Everything’s all set up. You didn’t sketch, did you?”

Mai fishes through her bag, “I did a while ago.” Azula looks it over. It’s a darkly alluring sketch of a hand holding a punctured heart, weeping roses and thorns. “I want it on my left shoulder blade and a simple throwing star on the right one.”

While Mai gets herself comfortable in Seicho’s makeshift chair, Azula reclains and reads through the newsfeed. Blue Talon is still soaring high as ever, but From Ashes To Phoenix is already garnering heavy attention with their new single announcement. The whole thing was rather sappy story about Zuko’s recent rehab struggles and an apology for acting out on stage. And for herself, Dragon Tongue is finally being praised for her stunning vocals and her soft, divine sound.

Azula is still rather conflicted about how quickly they were to turn from accusing her of pregnancy being obscene and raunchy to them gushing about how a baby on the way is the finishing touch on her new, soothing sound. She supposes that she should be thankful that they are speaking well of her again, regardless of hypocrisy. She wonders if her father is reading these headlines; wonders if her is proud or if he is seething--fuming because she is still rising despite his efforts to snuff her flame.

“What sort of tattoos were the rest of you thinking of getting?”

“I just want a cute little cherry blossom on my pinky!” TyLee answers.

“A broken chain.” Zuko replies. “On my bicep.”

Azula thinks for a moment. “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out. I have to wait until after the baby is born.”

“Oh, right!” Seicho replies. “Maybe I can help you design one.”

Her phone vibrates in her hand, the number on the screen is unfamiliar. “Hello?”

“Azula?”

“Yes.”

“This is Raava.”

“Raava!?”

She hears the tattoo gun flick off and four heads turn in her direction.

“You have a gift and it will be heard at Audio Of Agni. I’d like to talk with you about a loophole that I found.”

“What sort of loophole?”

“You have done work with From Ashes To Phoenix, yes?”

“I will be recording with them soon.”

“I am going to extend a formal invitation to From Ashes To Phoenix. Given their cooperation, you will perform two of three songs with them and one solo.”

She hadn’t expected to cry that night, but she does. She feels like a fool crying in front of all of them, but she is so relieved. Relieved and hopeful. She hasn’t lost her dream.

It will be an absolute treat to see the shock and horror radiate off of Blue Talon when she makes her appearance. And a larger treat to show her father that her worth is beyond what he can give her.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Azula/Cupholder girl #Zuko #Mai #Maiko #TyLee #Fanfiction #Very Long Text

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unfortunate-stranger-losers · 5 years

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Six Baudelaires AU, Part Two {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One}

Chapter Five → in which the children run amok at Prufrock Prep

Nick, indeed, found a way to skip class. To be fair, his siblings never should have doubted his determination.

“You see,” he explained, from the roof of one of the school buildings, after his siblings had finally found the staircase he took to lead them there, “The only punishment for being late for or missing class is getting your hands tied at meals. So if I skip meals, I don’t get punished, and I can hide up here with books and throw rocks at people.”

“That’s a horrible plan.” Lilac said, even as she passed him some cold grilled cheese they’d smuggled out for him. “I don’t approve at all.”

“You’re going to get shit grades.” Violet said, tossing him a milk carton.

“And eventually Nero’s gonna notice we only sit at the violin recital for an hour before sneaking out the back to raid the kitchens.” Nick shrugged. “Who gives a fuck? We’re only here til Poe finds someone to dump us on. Not like it matters.”

“You’re lucky.” Isadora said, sitting on the edge of the roof and kicking her legs as she looked down at the dying grass fields. “Our parents’ estate’s executor doesn’t give a fuck until orphans are ‘in’, whatever the hell that means.”

“Meaning we’re here til we die.” Duncan said dramatically, flopping onto his back beside Klaus, who was flipping through the library books Nick had smuggled out.

“I’m sure it’ll get better.” Lilac said comfortingly, though she glared at Solitude as she crawled out of her sister’s lap and moved over to Nick.

“Not likely.” Isadora said. “The world has shrunk to shades of gray / So here in hell is where we’ll stay.”

“I’m not sure ‘shrunk’ is the right word.” Duncan said, sitting up again. “Maybe try ‘turned.’”

“Seems boring.” Isadora shrugged.

“‘The world is fucked.’” Nick suggested.

“Enoz.” Sunny said. “That doesn’t rhyme.”

Isadora considered. “The world is fucked and I am gay.”

“There we go!” Nick cheered.

“Poem works for me and Lilac, too.” Klaus laughed slightly.

“Same!” Duncan called, which did nothing to discourage Nick from trying to push Klaus closer to Duncan; Klaus responded by elbowing his brother in the ribs.

Violet considered. “The world is fucked and I am bi…”

“So here in hell is where we’ll die.” Isadora finished, and Violet high-fived her.

Lilac groaned. “None of you are going to behave at all, are you?”

“Never!” Nick and Violet both cheered.

Lilac sighed, and then Violet said, “Oh, Li, we might need more metal for the mobile. Some of the crabs are getting bolder.”

Lilac paused. “Could we use my necklace?”

“No, no, we’ll find something else.”

Isadora looked up. “Oh, yeah. That necklace is pretty.”

“Thank you.” Lilac smiled. “I made it.”

“It was the first thing she learned how to make.” Klaus explained proudly.

Lilac giggled. “Yeah. Mom used to have one just like it, except instead of these gear patterns, it had her initials. I always thought it was pretty, but she never let me wear it, so I learned how to make my own. She was… so proud.”

They fell silent, realizing once again how long it had been since they’d seen their parents, and how they would never, in this life, see them again.

“Well,” Lilac said quietly, “We do have to get out. Classes, you know, and the girls have work-”

“I’m staying here.” Nick said. “I like throwing rocks at Carmelita when she comes outside.”

“Nick!”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Nick said, grabbing Les Miserables and starting to flip to where he left off, “Can you bring me more rocks next time you visit?”

“Visit? Okay, Nick,” Violet said, “You’re not living here.”

“Why not?”

“Nick!”

Classes continued to be just as boring as they had been day one, so it was probably a good thing that Nick skipped, because otherwise he might have lost his mind. Lilac only managed to pay attention by continuously braiding and unbraiding her hair, and Klaus kept doodling on the edge of his page and trying to think about books, or tossing notes at Isadora while Ms Bass’s back was turned. Violet and Duncan passed notes to each other, too, though occasionally they were distracted by Carmelita sitting behind one of them and continuously kicking their seat. Sunny and Soli did their best to keep up with Nero’s instructions and demands, even though they were starting to run low and staples and it was apparently not in the budget to replace them.

Whenever they weren’t smuggling books out of the library or smuggling food for Nick out of the kitchens- and salt as well, since they discovered it stunted the growth of the shack’s fungus- they went to go sit on the roof with Nick. Him and Isadora would toss things off the roof and then run to fetch them, usually to see how fast they’d fall, but sometimes they’d aim something at Carmelita or one of her lackeys. Duncan and Klaus would sit in the middle, with Klaus reading aloud from some novel or another and Duncan taking notes in his commonplace book. Solitude would usually stick with Nick, though she sometimes would let Babbitt out and chase them around the roof, much to Lilac’s discomfort. Lilac herself would work on building a makeshift cage for the crabs with Violet, or would join Klaus and Duncan in reading. If Violet wasn’t working on the cage, made out of scraps they’d smuggle out of the garbage or kitchens, she’d either join Nick and Isadora or play games with Sunny, depending on if Sunny was taking a nap or not.

“I think we’ll need more metal to work with.” Violet said on the third or fourth day, slowly pulling her ribbon out of her hair. “The crabs could easily escape at this point, and we don’t want to lose any.”

“Wright!” Sunny called, which meant, “We also don’t want to get pinched!”

“Good point, Sunny.” Violet said.

“Although,” Duncan shrugged, “Sunny could just bite them.”

Klaus laughed, and Sunny let out a cheer and clapped a little. She had never bitten a crab before, and she wondered what it was like.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” Lilac said, putting down her book. “Also, Nick, put Babbitt down, they would not survive the fall.”

“Well,” Nick said gruffly, even as he handed the frog over to Solitude, “How are we supposed to know for sure until we test it out?”

“You’re not killing your sister’s pet!”

“They’d be fine.”

“Babbitt strong!” Solitude said, though she did place her frog firmly onto her shoulder, where they laid against the fabric of her uniform to take a nap.

“Babbitt cannot survive a fall to the ground.” Lilac insisted. “None of us could.”

“I think Quigley could’ve made it.” Isadora sighed. “He used to make his own parachutes and jump off the roof.”

“I seem to recall forbidding him from doing that.” Duncan said.

“Do you think that stopped him?”

Violet smiled slightly, and then said, “I tried to do that once. Lilac practically chained me to a chair.”

“I would’ve, if Mom and Dad hadn’t asked me why I needed chains.” Lilac said.

Violet blinked at her. “Wait, I thought you were kidding about-”

“Maybe we could toss the spyglass.” Isadora said, glancing towards Klaus, who’d been elected to hold it for all of them. “See if that makes it do anything.”

“I can’t figure out what the dials do,” Klaus said, “But I seriously doubt it would fare well dropping to the ground.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” Isadora interrupted, looking up from her notebook. “I was just writing a poem about your old pal Count Olaf, but I can’t think of words terrible enough to describe him.”

“Fuckface.” Nick said.

“Maybe.” Isadora considered. “What rhymes with ‘fuckface’?”

“Language, you two.” Lilac said half-heartedly. “And, Isadora, Duncan, you remember what we said-”

“We know.” Duncan sighed. “If Count Olaf comes, you don’t want us anywhere near him.”

“We really don’t.” Klaus said carefully. “Not because we don’t trust you can take care of yourselves, but because we’ve seen him kill before. He won’t hesitate to hurt you, and we don’t want that to happen.”

“We get it.” Isadora shrugged. “You don’t have to keep reminding us.”

“Although, honestly,” Duncan said, “We really don’t see why you haven’t just killed him yet.”

“See!” Nick said, validated. “Damn it, Klaus, fucking marry this kid!”

“Will you shut the fuck up?”

Isadora laughed, and Lilac said, “Nobody’s getting married! Nick, you’re grounded!”

“You can’t ground me, we don’t have shit!”

“I’ll force you to go to class!”

“Good luck with that!”

Klaus sighed and went back to reading aloud, and Duncan quietly kept taking notes; they weren’t reading anything important, really, just a copy of Lord of the Flies, but Duncan liked journaling, and Klaus liked reading, so it was an effective way to hang out. Sunny rolled over and tried to take a nap, and Soli giggled and petted Babbitt under the shade of a chimney. Lilac got up to chase Nick around a little, and Violet giggled and got back to work on her cage.

“Okay, Soli,” Nick said, “If Duncan and Klaus are gonna break you into the library, you have to tell me first.”

It was day five or six, and they were sitting inside the Orphans Shack as night fell. Solitude was looking for Babbitt under hay bales, and she shrugged and said, “Snakes.”

“Yeah, I don’t care if you all were looking at herpetology books,” Nick said, turning to glare at Klaus, “I don’t like not knowing where you two are, and if you’re not coming to the roof after class, at least tell Violet and Lilac and Sunny so they can tell me-”

“Nick, you’re not our parent.” Klaus said. “You’re not even Lilac.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-?” Lilac asked.

“I’m older than you, though, so I’m responsible.”

“By thirteen minutes! Besides, I’m more responsible than you!”

“Why? Cause you’re taller?”

“For fuck’s sake, Nick-”

“Everyone shut up.” Violet groaned, flopping back onto a hay bale. “Stop being grumps.”

“We’re not grumps, you’re the grump!” Klaus shouted.

“If you don’t stop fighting right now,” Lilac warned, “I’m going to lock you in this shack and turn off the mobile.”

They all groaned, and then Nick said, “Okay, fine. I’m sorry, Klaus. But if you want a chaperone for your and Duncan’s date, don’t ask the toddler.”

“It wasn’t a date!” Klaus protested.

“Pey.” Soli looked up from the ground, giggling. “Um, I was there, and it totally was.”

“No!” Lilac said, as Violet and Sunny laughed. “None of you can date! You’re babies!”

“If we’re babies,” Violet said, sitting up, “Then what does that make Soli and Sunny?”

“Fetuses, keep up.”

Violet hmmed. “What about Isadora?”

“What about her?”

“She’s kinda cute, isn’t she?”

“Stop it!” Lilac huffed.

Klaus bit his lip, glancing at the ground. He slowly picked up Sunny, who giggled and leaned against him, and then he said, “When do you think we’ll leave?”

They fell silent. Then, Lilac said, “Whenever Mr Poe finds us a guardian.”

“Uoc.” Sunny said. “Or whenever Olaf finds us.”

None of them wanted to think about that.

“So, let’s go over this one more time.” Duncan said, sitting cross-legged on a hay bale. “We steal a tray from the kitchen, use it to complete the cage, turn on the mobile and then have Babbitt and Soli and Sunny chase the crabs into it, race them to the river, dump them there, and then leave the cage on the roof?”

“In case I wanna catch birds.” Nick nodded, kicking at the door of the shack.

“You’re not catching birds.” Lilac said. “Even if you wanted to, you would suck at it. We’ll leave the cage in the shack in case we need it again.”

“We could use it as a time-out spot for Sunny and Soli.” Klaus suggested.

“Boo!” Solitude shouted.

“Fisa!” Sunny shouted, meaning, “Ha! As if you could contain us!”

“I could totally catch a bird.” Nick muttered under his breath.

“I hope the crabs will be happy in the river.” Violet said, leaning her head against the wall.

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t be. They won’t get scared by loud noises or annoyed by orphans.” Isadora sighed.

“Hopefully it doesn’t confuse them too much.” Klaus said.

Duncan shrugged. “I doubt it would. Crabs tend to adapt fast. You said that in the book we read last night, remember?”

Klaus blushed slightly, trying very hard not to look at his siblings. “Yeah, right.”

“I have notes on it, if you-”

“No, I remember.”

Solitude giggled, and then Nick stood up abruptly. “Be right back.” he said, leaving the Shack real quick. His siblings were a bit concerned, as they didn’t quite like splitting up at the moment, but he was probably just using the bathroom, and besides, Nick did whatever he wanted anyway.

“Oh, Carm was being annoying this morning.” Isadora said, leaning over onto Violet’s shoulder and groaning. “Apparently we’re getting our new gym teacher this afternoon, since our last one fell out a window. She said he was gonna make us orphans do laps around the school while everyone else got pizza.”

“We don’t get pizza here.” Duncan said.

“Just ignore her.” Lilac said. “Bullies just want attention.”

“If we ignore her, she puts gum in my hair.” Duncan said.

Klaus looked very upset. “She does what?”

“It’s fine, we got it out.”

“We should kill her.” Violet said.

“Yay!” Sunny clapped.

“We should not!” Klaus said. “But… maybe we could hit her a little?”

“Do you all want to get expelled?” Lilac asked.

“Yes.” they all said.

They heard a tapping on the door, and Violet stood up to open it. As she did, Isadora and Duncan groaned.

“Speak of the devil.” Isadora huffed.

Violet opened the door and found herself face-to-face with Carmelita Spats. “Hello, cakesniffers!” she said, beaming. “I have a message for you!”

“Hello, Carmelita.” Violet said. “We don’t give a shit.”

“You should.” Carmelita said, glancing around the occupants of the shed. “Vice Principal Nero says that he wants all the orphans in his office right now. You’re invited, so unfortunately you won’t be punished at dinner tonight for going to the administration building.”

“Why does he want to see us?” Lilac asked.

“Hopefully he’s expelling you.” Carmelita said. “Now, because I delivered a message, who’s going to give me a tip?”

“Nick’s not here to give you a tip, Carmelita.” Klaus said.

“I don’t want his stupid book recommendations.” Carmelita said. “I’m an actress, all I need to read is scripts, and that’s if I’m not doing improv, and that’s-”

“I will throw a crab in your face if you don’t shut up right now.” Isadora said.

“I’ll throw Babbitt!” Solitude warned, reaching to grab her frog.

“I don’t know what a ‘Babbitt’ is,” Carmelita rolled her eyes, “But you can’t do anything to me because then you’ll be in trouble.” She sang the last word, and then said, “You should probably get over to the office before you’re late.”

She turned, and then shocked them by letting out a startled scream. She spun and started running, and everyone jumped to their feet, as Klaus grabbed Sunny and held her tight. Duncan grabbed Klaus’s arm, and Isadora and Violet stepped in front of Soli as Lilac pushed herself in front of everyone else.

But all they saw, as Carmelita ran, was Nick stumbling back towards the shack. They didn’t understand what had scared Carmelita so much until Nick turned towards them, and they also let out startled shouts.

“Nick Liam Baudelaire, what the hell is that?” Lilac shouted.

Nick grinned, holding out his hands, in which was clamped a very angry and very energetic crow. “I caught a bird!”

“Oh my god!” Duncan said.

“Awesome!” Isadora shouted.

“Where the hell-” Klaus began.

“Birdy!” Sunny clapped.

“For fuck’s sake!” Violet cried.

“Nick, you idiot!” Lilac shouted. “Let the bird go!”

Nick shrugged and released the crow, which flew directly into the shack. Isadora and Sunny let out cheers, Violet and Duncan screamed, Soli gripped Babbitt very tightly in her fist, and Lilac and Klaus instantly grabbed the hands of whoever was closest to them and started running.

Nick thought this was very, very funny, until everyone was out of the shack, and Lilac and Violet decided it would be great revenge to throw their schoolbooks at him.

“What do you think the Vice Principal wants to see us about?” Klaus asked.

“Maybe he’s finally letting you move into the dorms.” Duncan said hopefully.

“Maybe he’s gonna expel us.” Violet said, just as hopefully.

“Marbeau,” said Sunny, meaning, “Maybe they’ve finally opened a daycare or toddler school.”

“Maybe Mr Poe is going to take you to your next foster home.” Isadora said. “And we’ll be alone again.”

“Hey!” Nick punched her shoulder. “We’re not ditching you! We’ll just ask Mr Poe if you can come with us!”

“He won’t let us,” Lilac said, “But that doesn’t mean we’ll just leave you here.”

“We’ll smuggle you out in the car trunk.” Violet said.

“Or we could just make Poe think there’s been eight children the whole time.” Klaus said.

“He’s probably dumb enough to believe that.” Nick nodded.

“Fake siblings!” Isadora cheered, high-fiving Nick as Violet held open the door for them to Nero’s office.

They stepped inside and heard Nero’s violin come to a quick halt. “Who dares interrupt a musical genius while he’s rehearsing?”

“You said you wanted to speak with us-” Violet said, but she hastily cut herself off as she saw who was standing beside the Vice Principal.

Lilac instantly pushed Isadora behind Violet, before moving in front of both of them, as if to shield them herself. Klaus’s eyes widened and he pushed Duncan back, as Nick instantly grabbed onto Solitude and retreated several steps. Sunny let out a growl, which turned into a yelp of annoyance as Violet lifted her up.

“Ah, yes,” Nero said, not even noticing the Baudelaires’ sudden panic, nor the Quagmires’ confusion. “Our new gym teacher has requested to meet all the orphans for his new program. Isn’t that right, Coach Genghis?”

A man nodded from where he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. He gave a chilling smile to the Baudelaires, and his familiar eyes shone. A turban covered his one eyebrow, and he had worn gym shoes covering his tattooed ankle, but for the Baudelaires, there was no mistaking who he was.

“Hello, orphans,” said Count Olaf. “I can’t wait to tell you what I have planned.”

#asoue #asoue netflix #asoue movie #a series of unfortunate events #six baudelaires au #six baudelaires official fic #the austere academy #mine #my fanfic

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aelin-and-feyre · 7 years

Text

Ten Minutes Ago (Part 8)

Feysand - Cinderella au

Fic Masterlist

It feels like we’re getting close to the end but there’s still four more parts left!

“I can’t believe it,” Rhys growls, pacing in front of his father’s desk on the morning of his birthday. The High Lord looks like he is about to interject but Rhys isn’t done. “Actually, I can believe it because it’s exactly you. Every chance you get you manipulate my life, first with the hunting, then with training, and now you’re making me get married! And you won’t even let me choose my bride!”

“Of course I’m letting you choose who you marry Rhys,” he assures calmly.

“No,” Rhys pins his father with a hard glare. “No, you’re not. You’re ‘letting me’ choose from one of your elite—a select few who you think would suit me but I won’t allow it! I want to choose the person I spend the rest of my life with, father. Why won’t you just accept that?” He exclaims.

Rhys was right, he wasn’t able to sleep last night, at least not well. His mind was buzzing with arguments and love notes, expletives and beautiful blue-gray eyes. So, as soon as word came that his father was awake, Rhys requested a meeting with him.

“I’m doing this because I need to know that I’m leaving the kingdom in good hands,” the High Lord sighs. He is clearly exhausted but Rhys refuses to back down.

He scoffs. “You mean royal hands. Just because someone does not come from noble birth does not mean they can’t handle the Court, father.” The High Lord drags a hand down his face and giving him a long, hard look. Rhys’ expression turns desperate. “Please father, as a birthday present to me, lift the invitation decree and allow me a night to introduce you to the girl I wish as my bride. Please.”

Finally, the man quickly scribbles a quick note and hands it to his son. “Give this to Azriel, he’ll know what to do. Happy birthday Rhys.”

The prince can recognize a dismissal when he hears one and bows, starting to back out of the room. “Thank you, father. You won’t regret this.”

“I better not,” he grumbles and Rhys pulls the door closed.

He practically flies to the library, his heart joyous and light. He runs in, startling the four inside and leaping into a chair next to his best friend.

“I’m guessing the meeting went well then?” Cassian muses from across the table.

Rhys smiles grandly. “Here, Az, a note from my father.”

The Spymaster takes the note and glances over it, nodding. “It says that I am to alert all staff to welcome the ‘mystery princess’ tonight as the Guest of Honor.” They all looked rather impressed with Rhys.

“How the hell did you swing that?” Mor questions.

Rhys shrugs humbly, but the grin is still plastered on his face. “A little yelling, a little guilt triping, and I may have started begging halfway though.”

Amren shakes her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. He even agreed to meet her!” Rhys feels like doing a little happy dance in his seat. Suddenly, he has an idea. “I’m going to meet her at the entrance and walk with her to the ballroom. We’ll make a grand entrance together.”

“Um, Your Highness, I don’t think that is wise,” Azriel interjects. “She usually comes late so you will have to fight off hundreds of maidens coming before her. I suggest you let me escort her and meet you at the ballroom.”

Azriel is right, Rhys knows he is, but he still wishes he could see her stepping out of that carriage for himself, walk through the halls with the Guest of Honor on his arm. With a heavy sigh, Rhys agrees, “Fine, I guess you’re right. Just, get her to me as quickly as possible.”

Az stands and bows his head to Rhys. “I’m going to go inform the staff.”

Once the Spymaster is gone, Cassian cracks his knuckles. “Okay, while you were gone, we started a list of all the things we know about her.” Mor holds up a piece of paper with a couple lines of neat scrawl.

“Well, what have you got so far?”

“Her alias is Clare. She has light brown hair with blue-grey eyes. She is probably starved but can still afford one-of-a-kind dresses. She can run super fast and knows the song from Prince Rhys’ childhood. That’s about it for right now,” Mor reads off and Rhys is impressed that Cassian remembered the song one, or maybe it was Az.

“She always disappears when the clock strikes midnight,” Amren mentions and they all looked at her, confused. “Oh, please tell me I’m not the only one who realized that.”

Now that Rhys thinks about it, both times Clare had run away from him was when she heard the clock begin to chime. In fact, now that Rhys really thinks about it, he can remember a lot of odd things that were connected to Clare in the last few days.

“I have an idea,” he says suddenly and they all looked to him, Mor ready with her pencil to mark down whatever he says. “I’m not letting Clare get away tonight.”

...

“’Clare’ better not make an appearance tonight,” Nesta mutters for the thirty-fourth time today—Feyre counted. Her mother shushes her and ushers the sisters into the carriage.

Before joining them, Amarantha turns back to Feyre, eyeing her suspiciously in the doorway. “Make sure not to leave the house tonight, Cinderella.”

Feyre smiles softly, innocently. “Of course, Stepmother. Have a good night.”

Amarantha looks at her for another half second before nodding to herself and entering the carriage.

Rumor had spread about the mysterious princess coming back last night but not making it to the ballroom. Someone from the kitchen had leaked all that had happened. Everyone in the Court now knows about her arriving with Cassian, the food fiasco, and her alleged name. The person had told of Prince Rhys but hadn’t elaborated on anything after he came which Feyre is grateful for.

However, all day, her stepsisters lamented that if they’d gotten another thirty seconds with the Prince, he would have fallen in love with them. Feyre subtly rolled her eyes but kept any comments to herself. Nesta and Elain were both very disgruntled at the fact that ‘Clare’ might come back tonight, ruining their last chance to win the Prince’s heart.

Feyre watches the carriage for a few minutes and then rushes back inside. She runs through the house to the back garden, stopping when she reaches the old bench. She rips a length of vine and sets a circle, then she sits and waits.

“Are you ready for the final night?” The Suriel seems to appear from nowhere, one foot in the circle trap.

“I suppose so.”

A look of confusion crosses the faerie’s features. “What’s wrong?”

Feyre lets her head drop to her hands. “Everything. I think Stepmother knows that it’s me, Rhys and Cassian are getting too close to figuring out who I am, I don’t think they’ll let me leave tonight, and I think I’m in love,” Feyre confesses all in one breath.

When the Suriel doesn’t say anything for a long while. Feyre finally glances up to find them looking at her thoughtfully. “You’re in love with Prince Rhys, right?” The Suriel asks after the pause.

“Of course!” Feyre exclaims, exasperated.

The Suriel nods, content with the answer. “Ok good, then I can help you with your other problems.”

“You can?” Her friend pins her with a dry look. “You’re right, I shouldn’t doubt you.”

One side of the Suriel’s mouth tilts up. “Amarantha just needs a little push in the other direction to veer off your scent so I’m gonna do something a little different with your outfit tonight. Cassian and Rhys have no idea who you are, trust me, so I don’t need to do anything about that.” Feyre nods but is still skeptical. “And what’s the worst that can happen if they do find out?”

“They will be mortified that Rhys wasted his birthday celebration on a servant girl and banish me for wasting their time and lying to them,” Feyre suggests.

“If they don’t know who you are then you’ll never be able to see them again anyway,” the Suriel reminds. “But it’s your choice. As for the not letting you leave, you’re very right. Rhys is going to try his hardest to not let you run off without finding out who you are so I’m going to give you a little something for any obstacles you may encounter.” They wait expectantly until Feyre gets the hint.

“Suriel, you are under my control and as such I have a request: I wish for a tool to help me escape the ball tonight.”

Satisfied, the Suriel clenches their fist and opens it to present a bracelet with five blue pearls on it. They hand the delicate jewelry to Feyre carefully. “The beads on this bracelet will serve as short magic bursts. When it is time to leave and you run into things on your way, grab a bead and throw it at the hindrance. It will be just enough power to get you past the object but won’t do much more. Do you understand?”

Feyre nods and slips the bracelet around her wrist. “Good,” the Suriel claps. “Now let’s get you ready for your ma– I mean Prince.”

In the same order as the last two nights, a new pumpkin morphs into a blue carriage, the mice shift into horses, Bryaxis becomes human, and the bunnies hop onto the back of the pumpkin as footmen. At last, the Suriel turns to Feyre.

“You’re going to have more eyes on you tonight than ever in your life Feyre, we have to make this especially memorable.” Flicking their wrist, Feyre feels a soft breeze swirl around her.

Feyre watches as her dress grows, fluffs, and wraps around her body. The color changes to a brilliant blue, hundreds of layers build in the skirt, and her feet rise as glass slippers form around them.

When the transformation is almost finished, Feyre feels something settle into her hair. She reaches a hand up to lightly trace a tiara placed atop her head. “You’re making me an actual princess for the night?” She asks softly, checking that the bracelet is still secure around her now gloved wrist.

The Suriel shrugs. “Why not? They all think you’re one anyway, except Amarantha. The tiara will point her in the wrong direction and away from you.”

Feyre nods slowly, although not sure if she wants Rhys to think that she is royalty anymore than he already does. “Thank you, Suriel,” she says at last, truly meaning it. “These last two nights have been the best of my life.”

“Of course, girl. I wish you a long and lovely life, Feyre.” A black, mottled hand grasps hers gently for a short moment and then Feyre gathers her skirt to ascend the carriage. “Oh, make sure you watch the clock very closely tonight Feyre. Those beads can do much but they can’t rewind time.”

Feyre nods against, a lump in her throat at the thought of her first friend disappearing again. “Goodbye.” The Suriel’s voice is already fading in the distance and when Feyre looks back, they’re no longer there.

Masterlist

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j-wonwootrash · 7 years

Text

Wonwoo || Novels & Webtoons

Word count: 1.9k Genre: Fluff, Student!au, slice of life, romance A/N: Sorry if it’s badly written but I hope you all enjoy reading!

“Nothing Much.”

———

When Wonwoo was little, he loved books. He could spend hours in the mini library he had that his parents renovated for him. They would purchase him a lot of series, especially those that were eventually adapted into a movie. It was finally his paradise.

Enclosed and introvert, he wasn’t the type to mingle with everyone— he thought novels were such a good company. His classmates found it hard to approach him because he was always with his novels, around 3 of them on the side of his desk. It was as if he ought to finish them within a day.

Because of his love for novels, he loved creating and coming up with new plots and stories of all genres. He planned to write his very own series and maybe soon publish it. Who knows?

But other than being a bookworm, he loved gym and music class. They were the only way to rest brain from too much words and of course, no one knew except him. He has best friends too— Mingyu, Soonyoung and Seokmin, people he became close with.

You and Wonwoo had quite a strange encounter at class. He was your classmate but you didn’t really paid any attention to him, mainly because he had his novels. You’d say he was those characters in stories that weren’t really important in your life, that is you considered yourself a heroine.

There was one time you had to continue your webtoon series as readers have been anticipating the next part of the climax. You needed inspiration, and for that you definitely needed time. During lessons, recess, and heck, even gym class!— you’d bring out your drawing tablet just to continue drawing. You knew you had to keep your readers because if not, goodbye fan base and goodbye opportunity to become a known webtoon artist.

“Can anyone give me some symbolism that we could see in Lord of the Flies?” Mr Kim, your literature teacher asked while he walked back and forth at the front of the class. He spotted you, who was scribbling quite vigorously with your head down. “What’re your thoughts y/n?”

You shot your head up embarrassed, bringing your pencil down to your desk as the class had their eyes on you. “Uh..” Your voice quivered and full of uncertainty.

“I see you weren’t listening, like always. Not a surprise. Detention after class.” He said as he took your drawing tablet. He still had a smile on his face, yet there was a hint of disappointment in them. When he saw you nod, he looked around the room for others who could answer. He saw Wonwoo, one of his best students in literature, dozing off with another novel in his desk.

“Wonwoo, can you help y/n answer?” He gestured to you as he had your drawing tablet in his hands.

“Well..” Wonwoo trailed off, unable to answer as it was clearly seen that he didn’t paid any attention. With his specs on, he fixed it as it was slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose. Cold sweat slowly trailed down his temples then to his jawline. Like a familiar encounter, he felt the pressure despite being the best one in class.

The bell rang indicating the end of the lesson. Mr Kim called the both of you for detention, confiscating your beloved things. “You may get these after you submit an essay of what we discussed today.”

“Gee thanks for dragging me to detention.” Wonwoo walked alongside you at the corridor, heading to towards an empty classroom.

“What, you’re blaming me? You were doing something else too.” You opened the door and sat on a desk to begin writing.

“Yeah Mr Kim wouldn’t have known that if you answered the question.” He grabbed the pile of papers in your hands, the tone in his voice reflected the annoyance you gave him.

“Afraid that I’ll ruin your reputation, top student?” You chuckled which basically made Wonwoo more annoyed.

“Says the one doesn’t even have a reputation.” He immediately made a comeback and for sure you heard him mutter ‘last’ that made you hurt— well, because first, drawing webtoons did not define you of being not bright; second, it did not mean you put education as last priority; and third, you had a huge crush on him. Hearing that from him only made your eyes form beads of tears.

Quiet, you looked at him with eyes he had never seen. It was a new discovery of you. Oh how you felt stepped on with that attitude of his. Now you knew he had that side of him, you swore to never talk to him again. Wonwoo felt a little accomplished for making you quiet with your ignorance of him. You didn’t know his burdens of an eldest child, where pressure was put onto him. He only wanted to make his parents proud.

“Webtoons requires creativity and lot of inspirations. A guy like you who reads and writes novels often should know that.” You sniffed in a low voice, obviously hurt.

He saw you leave the classroom, your completed essay on your desk. He thought of what you said, that was so true and it made him feel pure guilt. Your paper was blown off of the desk by the gust of wind outside, it flew to Wonwoo’s side. As he took the paper and read it, your way of words was something he never imagined.

You were creative and bright.

———

You sat still in your seat, unable to do other things than drawing. Sure Wonwoo did hurt you but you love him to the point you forgave him. What bothered you was your drawing tablet. Mr Kim called you out to tell you that he accidentally dropped it whilst running to punish some students. He wanted to get you a new one but you refused, saying that it wouldn’t bring back your drawings. You didn’t have any other hard drive where you had your drawings saved, and that was basically the only one you got. The latest chapter of your series were there and it was gone. It wasn’t even saved in your Drive because well, you didn’t have time.

Whenever you wanted to talk to Wonwoo he would look away and acted like you weren’t there. You knew he wanted to apologize but couldn’t so you just let him be— wait until he was ready.

It pained Wonwoo to know that you did not dare to look at his way. It pained him to see you stop drawing, that was something you loved. Why did he do that? Why would he hurt you? He didn’t have that attitude in him and yet he still did it. He never imagined hurting a girl, someone he actually loved. Countless of times he encountered you at the canteen, you would only avoid him. His heart felt crushed.

Heck, he had so much things that went through his mind and he couldn’t even utter a single sorry well because, what could an apology do? He knew it would only hurt you more.

He grunted in his seat that made his friends wondered his behavior. “Yo dude, what’s up?” Soonyoung fisted the boy’s arm.

“Nothing much.” Wonwoo lied but it made the boys shrug their shoulders and before they stood, they heard him say something.

“What to do if you hurt someone you love?” He scratched his head. Mingyu, Soonyoung and Seokmin knew what he meant.

“Approach her and say that you’re really sorry. Make it up to her.” Mingyu nudged his Hyung.

“Or try to explain to her that you didn’t meant it, that you did it without thinking.” Soonyoung said.

“Hyung, I’m sure she’ll understand.” Seokmin assured him, as he was close to you too.

———

He followed you to your house after school even though he felt like a stalker. This is stupid. He just had to talk to you and he kicked the stones that blocked his path. The stones led to you. As he looked ahead, your small frame showed him how fragile you were, how you skipped meals just to continue the series. And yes he did read the series after that fight.

“Y/N!” He finally called out to you, who turned around to see his worried face. Immediately you stopped in front of your house and he caught your hand. “I’m sorry!”

“‘You’re the most terrible snob’, Wonwoo.” Your lips formed a slight smile, at least that was what he thought he saw.

“Me?” He asked and a realization hit him. “Wait is that a dialogue from ‘Me Before You’?”

“A guy like you who reads novel often should know that.” You whispered.

The familiar sentence brought Wonwoo back to that day. Guilt hit him but it didn’t bother him. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I?” You shrugged your shoulders as you looked elsewhere. ‘I can’t get mad at you because I like you.’ was what you wanted to tell him.

Wonwoo dropped his novels that made you look to him, his cheeks now were pink and you realized. “Did I just say it out loud?” You cupped your mouth in shock.

He nodded and you picked up his books to his arms. “Just forget I said that Wonwoo, you can leave since I forgive you and—“ You turned him around for him to start walking, and he suddenly turned around to face you.

“And I like you too.” He confessed, satisfied that you weren’t mad at him anymore.

———

Since then you started to go out with Wonwoo and experienced all sorts of dates; the carnival, cinema, aquarium, bike rides etc. It had been six months ago and he was still head over heels for you.

One time he asked you to create and draw for him a visual representation of his novel trilogy. You didn’t want to at first since he wasn’t a fan of cartoons and the colors were kind of too much for him. But since he got so used to you, he started to like it.

He published his first book online after few reviews from his friend who worked at the firm. It gained a lot of readers who were interested in it and they requested for the cover page for the protagonists. You gladly accepted his offer; he was your boyfriend after all.

Your date was postponed since Wonwoo had to complete the last few pages of the second book. You were at his place for a little while. He was obviously tired and was to take a break. You felt his presence behind you as you drew your webtoon series on the small table, with the soft carpet underneath you.

“Just let me rest for a while.” he let his head lean onto your small back frame. “One minute is fine.”

“One.. Two.. Three.. Four..” You began to count even though your heart was beating fast. “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty five, thirty-“

“Hey that’s cheating.” He said so bluntly and right now he purposely put his weight onto you.

“My one minute is soon over though. And I get to decide on how to count, not you.” you excused.

“You’re as sly as a fox y/n.” He rested his hand to the floor. “Should I do something sly to you? Like in Fifty Sha—“

“What the heck you-“ you tried to push him away, only to be cut off with his actions. He wrapped his arms around your waist, he practically hugged you that your back was by his chest. “What’re you doing?”

“Recharging.” His chin was on your shoulder and you felt his breath tickle your ear. “I need energy and you’re the perfect one to keep me going.”

“So cheesy.” You scoffed but inside you were dying with butterflies that continuously punched your stomach. “But I like it.”

Wonwoo sniffed your strawberry-scented hair in response, giving you a kiss before he dozed off to dreamland.

#seventeen #seventeen fluff #seventeen au #seventeen romance #seventeen angst #seventeen imagines #jeon wonwoo #seventeen wonwoo #wonwoo imagines

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bandbagels · 7 years

Text

i don’t want you, but i want you - (bad boy!frank iero x reader)

A/N: I don’t know what the fuck i was doing during this but this shit is so long, enjoy :)

hit me up, I’m nice i swear // masterlist

“Frank, we just have to get this done and done well, and then we don’t ever have to speak to each other again.” I say, setting down my notebook at one of the outside tables. Frank sighs, letting his notebook slam on the table and he puts his feet up on the table, showing no regard for the project.

“Fine by me.” Frank says nonchalantly and I glare at him, pushing his feet off the table.

“Don’t be an ass.” I mutter, opening my notebook. He mumbles something incoherently and opens his notebook, looking towards me.

“What’s your pretty little mind thinking we should do?” He asks and I can’t tell if he’s being serious or teasing me. Ignoring the comment, I open the copy Lord of the Flies I brought.

“Well we need to show how fast these kids lost their innocence on the island, but I’m debating on whether it was because of their personalities or the environments they surrounded themselves with,” I pause, reading a line of the book, “or maybe their responsibilities.” I wonder aloud, looking back up at him.

Frank had his back up on the table and he was staring at me. Not in a way where he was listening to me, but in a way where he was just staring at me, but I couldn’t see the mood behind his eyes. I almost rolled my eyes and nagged him again but he replies.

“Maybe it was all of above.” Frank suggests, nonchalantly staring now, “I feel like innocence was uniquely lost in the book. Jack turned because of his egotistic personality and his need to fill the shoes of his hunter responsibility. Roger was shown as evil in the beginning, and-“ “-the innocence he had washed away because of his environment.” I finish for him and he nods.

“To be honest, I didn’t think you were listening to the book.” I say, as our teacher had a recording read the book to us, “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was sleeping, but you sit close enough to me that I could hear you discuss it.” He tells me as I write down the information, “And it seems a lot easier to remember when it’s coming out of your mouth.” He smirks, making me blush, “Don’t blush yet, darling, I’m only getting started.”

“Be serious, Iero. It’s your fault we got sent out-fucking-side and have to work on this at lunch together.” I snap, glaring at him.

“It’s not my fault you keep arguing with me.” He states, riling me up on purpose.

“Whatever. Now we just need the artistic side of the project.” I say.

“That’s most definitely your side of the project, miss art portfolio.” He teases and I nod.

“I can get into the art room and use the stuff I have stuffed in there. Meanwhile,” I pause, looking up at Frank, who looks unamused but stands anyway, ready to do as I ask, “can you head to the library and pick up some picture books of like heaven and hell? Or descriptions? Please?”

“Anything for you, darling.” He smirks, bringing a blush to my cheeks again.

—

I could barely carry all of the art supplies I was holding, including a bunch of cardboard, metallic paint, rocks and fluffy cotton. I was almost to the table when someone jumped out in front of me, making me drop everything.

“Frank.” I whine, bending down to pick it up. Frank was laughing his ass off, but eventually started to help carry some of the things.

“You’re way too damn easy.” He laughs, “Instead of Ralph as the symbol of innocence, it should be you.”

“I’m not innocent.” I tell him and he glances at me.

“You’re the poster child for innocence,” He giggles, “It’s not a bad thing though. I mean, I’m the total opposite of innocence. I wouldn’t want you to turn out like me, sweetheart.”

“Why’s that?” I ask him and he turns towards me.

“Are you kidding? You’re smart without even trying. You have an amazing personality. You’ve got things going for you and all I can do is sit and admire you from afar.” He spills, “Not to mention you’re fucking beautiful.”

All I could do was blush.

“What are you saying, Frank?” I ask, still uneasy on what he was really getting at.

“I’m saying I adore you. I’ve accepted that and I’m gonna get over it, don’t worry.” He mumbles, laying the cardboard on the table next to the books.

“Why would you want to get over it?” I ask him, my heart thumping in my chest. I’ve always liked Frank in that way but the way he always seemed to pick a fight with me dimmed that feeling down.

“Think of it like this. I smoke cigarettes. I shouldn’t, but I do. Now with you, I shouldn’t be feeling this way towards you, but I do.” He states, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it, “You’re a goody-two-shoes. I’m a rebel. In this case, we shouldn’t attract.”

“Why not?” I pester more.

“Because we’re not fucking magnets, Y/n. We’re human, and it never works out with humans. Let it go.” He growls, “Can we just get started on this, please?”

“Out of all people to accept things that are abnormal, I’d believe it to be you, Frank.” I say, continuing the conversation.

“I’m just looking out for the best for you. I’m not someone you want to be with, trust me, just let it go. We have 45 minutes.” He picks up a piece of cardboard but he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Promise we’ll talk about this?” I ask him and he groans.

“I’d really just like to drop this, Y/n. I don’t even know why I told you in the first place.”He shakes his head but I keep staring at him until he looks up at me.

“I’m not gonna drop this.” I tell him and he sighs.

“I’ll meet you at your locker after school, alright?” He promises, earning a nod from me and we start to work on this project.

—

Eighth period ended and I go to my locker to put away books, and as I close the locker, Frank is behind the door.

“Frankie, damn,” I yelp, “You scared me.”

“Frankie?” He smirks, walking with me, “Sexy.”

I roll my eyes but my grin speaks otherwise. It’s quiet for a moment before Frank speaks up.

“What do you want to talk about?” He asks, more timid than usual.

“How do you feel?” I ask him, “About me.” He chuckles.

“I already told you, I adore you, but I can’t-“ He stops mid-sentence.

“I adore you.” I say suddenly, “Would that change anything?” He’s staring at the ground as we walk, almost like he’s finally stuck in the middle.

“I can’t, Y/n. I can’t be with you.” He starts, “I fuck around too much for a relationship. I don’t even know the first about relationships. It just wouldn’t work out with me.”

“What if it’s not a relationship at first?” I propose, “I mean, we both fucking like each other, but what if instead of a relationship, we were just talking. No strings attached, just talking. We’re with each other but we’re not really with each other. A connection but nothing really connecting us.”

He thinks about it before looking at me.

“I hate that I’m doing this,” He shakes his head, “you don’t need me.”

“Technically, I don’t have you.” I end the conversation there, turning into a classroom because of course, as the goody-goody I apparently was, I had clubs after school.

—

The talking thing was the best we could have done. We sat with each other more and talked for hours just about music or how I felt (mostly because Frank never talked about his feelings). We became so close in the month we decided to start this.

The thing was, Frankie was a huge softy. The hardcore persona he had disappeared when he was around me. It liked it. I believed that part of him was better than the other.

I open my locker, receiving a tap on the shoulder. “What’s up, Pete?” Over the course of the month, I met Frank’s friends, and me and Pete immediately hit it off.

“Nothing, I just want to congratulate you on having Frank wrapped around your finger.” He smirks, joking. I shake my head, partially grinning as I take some books out.

“I don’t have Frank wrapped around my finger.” I say, putting some books back in my locker and shutting it.

“I disagree. We went to a party last week and normally, Frank just takes the first girl that flirts with him up for a quick one. Maybe a few girls.” Pete starts.

“I did not need to know that.” I roll my eyes.

“Anyway, at the party last week he literally didn’t take any girl up on their offers. None. And it probably doesn’t seem weird to you but it was weird for him. I was thinking, and like,” Pete pretends to think deeply, “Why would Frank choose to not have sex with any of those girls? Oh yeah, he has a total fucking hard on for you.”

“Pete!” I say, pushing him because we’re in a public place.

“What?” He chuckles, “I’m just telling you, the horny little fucker he is, he wants to bone you badly if he’s rejecting sex from anyone else.”

“Pete, shut up.” I blush at the words, noticing Frank walk into the hall. He gives me a little smile before noticing Pete, in which he gives a bit of a confused look.

“I’ll see you later, Y/n, if I’m late to health again Mrs. B’ll have my ass.” He grins, hugging me. He nods ‘hey’ to Frank before rushing in the other direction.

“Hey, sweetheart,” He smiles, “What was Pete saying?”

“He was talking about how he needs help in Health. Nothing much.” I answer, walking with him. He nods, “Why? Are you jealous?” I tease.

“Of course,” He grins, “I’m so jealous you’re helping Pete in health.” He says, “Anyway, Ray wants to invite you to this thing he’s calling a ‘student get together’.”

I chuckle. “Ray’s a little cutie.” I tell him, ready to turn into my next class, “I’ll go with DJ, since she most definitely has a crush on Ray. See you there, Frankie.” I smile, turning into my class. Last second, a hand wraps around my waist and I’m pulled into a hug.

I’ve never seen Frank hug anyone let alone me.

—

Walking up to Ray’s house, it was not what I’m guessing he expected. It was a full blown high school party, with loud music and drinking.

“Not what I was expecting.” I say to my best friend and we talk in.

“I don’t care. I’m gonna go find Ray. Go desperately make-out with Frank for the first time.” She teases and I brush her off as I walk around.

“Y/n?” I hear Pete ask and I turn. He had been drinking a bit and drunkingly smiled at me, “Didn’t think it was your kind of scene.”

“It’s not, I guess.” I tell him and over the loud music.

“Well,” He slurs, grabbing my shoulder and pointing in a direction, “Frank’s over there. I’m gonna go try to make out with Patrick.” I nod and head in that direction. I start that way and find Frank sitting on a counter, very drunk and really out of it. Actually all of the boys were.

“Hey, Frankie.” I smile and he jumps off the counter, coming very close and holding my waist. He’s almost giggling at me.

“Hey, Y/n.” He giggles, looking down at me, “I wanna make out with you. Do you wanna make out?” He giggles again.

I look up and chuckle a bit, a smile tugging at my lips. “How much have you had to drink, Frankie?”

“Not a lot, actually.” He tells me and I don’t even realize we were backing into a wall.

“I don’t know how the hell I want you on regular days, but I always know I wanna make out with you all the fucking time.” He mumbles, “Fuck, I’m fucked up, aren’t I?”

“You’re pretty fucked up, Frank.” I giggle, slipping out of his grasp, “I think you need some water.”

“You’re always fucking right, baby.” He grins, moving away, letting me actually grab him some water, “You’re not gonna drink?” He asks before shaking his head, “Shit, sorry, you don’t drink. I knew that.”

I giggle at him as I bring him his water, explaining how maybe he needed to stop drinking tonight.

“Probably.” He tells me, setting the glass down on the counter and laying his head in my neck. He places little kisses up and down. A blush rises up to my cheeks like it always seems to do when he’s around.

“Frankie, you’re drunk.” I remind him and he keeps laying kisses.

“I don’t care.” He says, lifting his head and swiftly kissing me. He obviously knew what he was doing, him being way more experienced than me, and he basically took the lead and guided me through the kiss, “Fuck, that felt really good,” He separates for a second before crashing his lips on me again. His hands find my waist and I gently push him off although I don’t want to.

“What’s wrong? Are you uncomfortable because-“ I interrupt him, “No, Frankie, I’m fine, it’s just you’re drunk and you won’t even remember this tomorrow, so let’s get you home, okay?” He nods, shortly before grabbing Ray’s attention.

“Ray?” He yells, “You have a room?” He asks, not really going into detail, and Ray’s eyes get a bit bigger while his eyes shift from me to him.

“Yeah, Upstairs, first door on the right. I’d want you two in a room rather than strangers.” He says and we climb the stairs, finding our way into the room.

“You don’t wanna make out right now?” He grins drunkingly, falling onto the bed.

“I’d rather not when you’re drunk, baby.” I chuckle, laying next to him.

“Baby? Y/n, I swear to god, I’m asking you to be my girlfriend after this.” He spills, drawing me closer under his arm, “I should have just done it a while ago but I was too damn scared of ruining a relationship. But, fuck, I want you. All of you.”

I don’t know what to say to him.

“Frankie,” I start and he hums so I know he’s listening, “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling.”

—

A groan brings me awake and suddenly I’m tucked into someone’s chest. Frank.

“Frankie, wake up.” I say and his arms soften around me, groaning lightly again. The room was still dark so I could guess it was early in the morning, but light from outside the door illuminated the room a bit.

“Fuck,” He mumbles, rubbing his eyes, and looking to me, “Did we do something? Because I sure as hell wouldn’t want to forget that.”

“We didn’t.” I say, laying my head against the pillow, “You just got too drunk.”

“I’m so sick of wanting you,” He tells me randomly, “I fucking love you, and I fucking want you. That’s it.” I lay there, listening to his voice, “I want to make out with you in the school halls and then we can watch all the flicks you want and then I’ll fucking marry you one day and we’ll have a kid named-“ I move in bed, pressing my lips to his, cutting him off.

“You wanna do that?” I ask, straddling him, “Because I do too.”

“I do,” He groggily whispers, “But right now I’m going to throw up, so when i get back I’ll tell you how much I love you and then you’ll be my girlfriend.” He chuckles, standing to go to the bathroom, “You know how all that fluffy shit goes.”

“You’re impossible.” I grin, “I love you.”

“I love you more, love.” He states, sleepily walking to the bathroom.

give me ideas // masterlist

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alightinthelantern · 5 years

Text

Because the decade is ending I’ve been revisiting old interests and past fandoms from when I was a teen, and boy is it a trip down Memory Lane.

Listening to old Vocaloid songs from when I was in high school back in 2010, when I was 15 and new to internet culture, and it was one of the first Japanese culture I ever discovered. Apparently Vocaloids are still a thing? I knew Miku was still popular bc I’d seen stuff in the past year featuring her, but apparently the other Vocaloid characters are too, and there’ve been a whole bunch of new ones introduced in the past decade? I remember when the whole Daughter of Evil saga was being created. I remember all the alt characters people created by taking the main vocaloids and pitch-altering their voice banks. The Vocaloid community was fresh and thriving back then. That was back when Gender-Bending was a staple of fandom culture, and making male “versions” of female characters and vice versa was hugely popular. This was when “Caramelldansen” and “Ievan Polkka” weren’t Classic Memes, this was when they were new, and all the rage.

I remember the Gamecube days, back in the 2000s, and watching my stepbrothers battle my sisters interchangeably on it or the old Nintento 64 they had, in Mario Kart, or Mortal Kombat, or the original Smash Brothers (I, who had terrible hand-eye coordination, wasn’t fit for playing, but was more content to passively enjoy anyway). I remember when the Wii was first introduced (my mother didn’t believe in video games for a long time, and only bought a console for the family about four years later). I remember the GameBoy, I remember the release of the first XBox. I remember the online dress-up doll games. I remember when the Lego Star Wars video game was first released, and being an avid fanatic of those famous bricks as a kid enjoyed watching my siblings play that probably more than than anything else.

I remember how huge the cosplay scene was in the early 2010s, for all kinds of shows. I remember reading Emma: A Victorian Romance by Kaoru Mori with glee as a teen, siting in a bean bag chair in the Teen Area of my local library, because they had a dedicated manga section and had the entire print run. That was back before Borders was bought out by Barnes & Noble and ceased to be, and I’d often sit in the second-floor manga section of my local Borders and read the volumes that caught my eye for a half-hour or more, and the store clerks didn’t care because it was a different world then, a different culture, and I was always a polite, well-behaved kid anyway who always physically respected the books. Apparently the anime adaptation of Mori’s Emma from years ago finally got an English dub in the past year? I’m going to have to track it down and give it a watch.

I remember loving the Romeo x Juliet anime as a teen, that crazy and brilliantly original high-fantasy reimagining of the classic play. I loved that the English dub script was mostly in Elizabethan-era English. I remember Ouran Host Club and Baccano! too, and the first of those being one of the funniest things I’d ever seen in my life at the time. Same with The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya. I remember liking Fruits Basket back in 1010, and only realizing years later how fucked up it actually was. I remember Baccano! and Nabari No Ou. I also remember some other shows whose names don’t bear repeating. I remember downloading their OSTs off dedicated websites that no longer exist. I still have these soundtracks in my iTunes library. I remember when burning playlists onto CDs was popular; they finally became obsolete and passé sometime in my high school years, after the rise of mp3 players and programs like iTunes crystallized the superiority of the .mp3, and then people would laugh when I mentioned my own burned CD collection.

I remember when Over the Garden Wall first came out, in 2014, and how groundbreaking it was at the time in terms of what an animated show could be, visually and plot-wise. That show still has a small bud dedicated fandom it seems. I remember the character ask-blogs that were so popular from 2014--16 on tumblr, both ones with drawn replies and ones with live cosplay photos or gifs. God, the ask-blog community was so huge at the time. That might have been the height of tumblr’s popularity, the mid-2010s. I remember DeviantART and the thriving fanart community it had before tumblr took over in the early 2010s. I remember all OCs people were making, and the ask-accounts before ask-blogs were a thing. I remember the roleplay groups. I remember all the fucked-up things people were into back then because the Scene Phase had come but not yet entirely gone, and because teens were emo little shits in general. I remember when anime pairings were written as “[name] x [name]” in full before people started mashing names together around 2014, I remember when words like y*oi and y*ri were the norm. Oh how times have changed. (And thank god they’ve changed)

I remember when the Twilight movies were being made and my high school health teacher put the first movie on in class one day and had the class point out different ways in with the romance was toxic and unhealthy. It’s mind-boggling that in 2019, after The Discourse had come, burned, raged, and gone, that people are still stupid enough to like those films. Even back then I was smart enough to see them for the creepy, badly-written dreck that they were. I remember when The Hunger Games was published (I never read it). I remember the first Hunger Games Movie coming out and the controversy surrounding Jennifer Lawrence being cast as the lead. I remember coming into school one day to find two of my teachers casually debating it (I never saw the movies, and didn’t particularly care about that conversation).

I remember watching an independent showing of Studio Ghibli’s From Up on Poppy Hill in 2015 at a local indie theater, and the audience roaring with laughter when one of the boys at the old club house asked “How can we make archaeology cool again?!” and another replying “We can’t!”, and then a woman in the audience said out loud “Archaeology is cool!”

I remember the birth, life and death of Vine, and despite The Discourse raging on tumblr at the time, the humor on that app was still largely Mainstream and often racist.

I remember Teen Wolf, and Glee, Sherlock and Supernatural and Doctor Who. I remember the emergence of “Superwholock” and the sheer insufferableness of the fandom before they eventually, blessedly died out. I remember the disappearance of shows like J*njou R*omantica and the rise of shows like Free! and Yuri on Ice!!!, Modern “woke” animes that still featured vapid, cliché-driven writing, with Modern “woke” audiences that were puerile-minded and cliché-hungry as ever, the same y*oi fangirls as those that had existed in the early 2010s, only now the shows had done away with the nasty R*pe-As-Romance and replaced it with cringey, ham-fisted pretenses of Realistic Psychology or Social Conscience. And I realized that anime fans my age weren’t worth their salt, and by that time I was too old for anime anyway so I finally dropped it. New animes have come and gone, new live action shows have come and gone, and all the same terrible fandom drama that has burned year after year regardless of show still burns. Same shit, different sewer.

I remember how different online culture was for teens a decade ago. I remember how different real life was for teens a decade ago. Everything has changed so much in the past decade. Teens were children when I was teen. Now, ten years later, teens are like miniature adults, thinking and speaking maturely, socially and politically conscious, wise beyond their years. Racism is acknowledged for the evil it is, and bigoted trolls are no longer socially accepted. When I was a teen, been an edgelord was in, and kids like me who were unusually conscientious were labeled Babies and Oversensitive whenever something didn’t sit right and we voiced objections. Anons telling people to kill themselves was routine. People were violent and ruthless online, and the culture was truly reminiscent of The Lord of The Flies, a cutthroat free-for-all among girls and boys of all ages.

But not anymore: as people keep saying these days, being an Asshole is Out, being Kind is In. Shit like H*zbin H*tel, that would’ve been immensely popular ten years ago, is acknowledged for the violent, vile crap it is. And the language around sexuality and gender has changed so drastically, and has opened up so much. There was no trans content a decade ago in fandom, and Gender-bending, when done to explore the social ramifications of a character as the “opposite gender” (because nothing outside the gender binary existed as far as fandom was then concerned), and not just for titillation, was always cisgendered and done by way of Alternate Universes.

I had a miserable experience as a teen, and I wish that I could have experienced this kind of environment in my formative years rather than the one I did. But although I never did, I am so happy for the teens of today, that they are able to experience this kind of social openness, that they can experience this kind of unity and conscientiousness that exists in a way it never did before. That, even with as bleak and awful as the world is, they are fighting to make it better for themselves. Because it really was them that changed it.

Because, as much as Millennials like to pretend otherwise, we didn’t make the internet culture what it is today, We were edgy shitlord brats who loved laughably bad media, whether it was edgy and featured protagonists who murdered for fun, or maudlin and featured Mary Sue protagonists. We had flame wars over who was “uke or seme” for characters that weren’t even gay. We were nasty piss-stains, and even the teens like me who were better than the rest still had our awful moments. I’ve done and said things as a teen that I’m ashamed of, and no amount of nostalgia can change the fact that fandom and the media it consumed was objectively awful a decade ago. And though “Fandom Moms” and other nasty, disgusting, overgrown-children may be a proud bastion and defenders of the Old Ways, reminiscing about their LiveJournal Days and telling themselves their age is somehow indicative of wisdom rather than how creepy and pathetic they really are, their days are numbered, and I can’t wait to see their +30yo asses slowly die out in the face of progress.

#personal #''Old Radio'' is a good song tho. Kaito was def my favorite as a teen.

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cupcakeshakesnake · 7 years

Text

Watching Extremis for the first time

(Spoilers below)

-Who’s narrating?

-If you serve as executioners to everything... then you execute flies and mosquitoes and stuff like that?

-”The destruction of a Time Lord--” STOP RIGHT THERE, AND DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME THE DOCTOR’S GONNA BE EXECUTED.

-Holy shit the Daleks are actually an impressive race, they killed a ton of those Time Lords that are supposedly so hard to kill

MISSY??

-WTF

-”I didn’t expect you.” Well then who’d you expect, some other Time Lord who miraculously survived the Time War?

-Ah, gotta love them Daleks with their gossipy mouths, spreading rumors everywhere.

Why is his suit so worn. I’m concerned.

-”They can’t know I’m blind, Missy. no one can know.”

-HA

-FUCKING FINALLY

-SO IT WAS MISSY ALL ALONG

-CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL THOSE HUNDREDS, THOUSANDS, MAYBE EVEN HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF THEORISTS OUT THERE WHO GOT IT RIGHT

-”Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me live.” I...

-*phone notification jingle* wut

I DON’T LIKE THIS, I DON’T LIKE THE TITLE OF THAT EMAIL, OR THE COLOR OF THAT EMAIL, OR THE GALLIFREYAN LOADING BAR, OR THE GLITCHY GLITCH EFFECTS

Do all these people have fevers or is the weather just really hot??

-So I’m guessing he uses the shades to aid his vision now?

-Well, as long as he’s not completely in the black I’m fine

-”ve arrrre to com heerre dirrectly frrom the vaticaan”

-The pope???

-what is going on????!?!?!?

-”Pope Benedict. Lovely girl. What a night. I knew she was trouble, but she wove a spell with her castanets.“ wut

-”The Pope doesn't zoom round the world in the Popemobile, surprising people.“

-I am so confused and worried right now

I was kinda losing focus while reading the transcript of this episode and then BOOM, SUICIDE PICTURE FLASHES, WTF

-”Assume nothing. Assumption makes an ass out of you.”

-”I thought you'd moved out from here? “Yeah, slightly didn't work out. Second attempt on the way.”

-”I don't like knowing their names. I only get attached.”

-”Of course not. I have very strict rules about men.“ “Probably not as strict as mine.”

-”Oh, I'm sorry. Here's me thinking that she dragged some poor, terrified man home.“ Poor lady doesn’t know what’s going on, but talk about getting out of a tight spot.

-My favorite scene in the episode so far omg

-Ah yes, Bill’s house pipes that always go VWOOOORP VWOOOOORP.

-”Well, whatever this is, and actually it's not anything yet, it is absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.”

Gotta love how them popes come with a pre-installed church organ sound effect

-I only understood one word that sounded like “Doctor”.

“You’re all going to hell.”

-I love Bill omfg

-”Pope Benedict said that you were more in need of confession than any man breathing. But when the offer was made, you replied it would take too much time. On behalf of the Catholic Church, the offer stands. You seem like a man with regret on his mind.“

-Well, that went down in a bad way...

The very fancy scifi watch hidden under the very fancy fantasy-ish robes

The Doctor suspects Darth Sidious is up to something.

-Nope, nevermind, that was Nardole.

OHHH

-”Warning: I have full permission to kick your arse.”

-”Because I don't like being worried about. Around me, people should be worried about themselves.“ "Yeah, shall I tell you the real reason?“ "No.“ "Because the moment you tell Bill, it becomes real. And then you might actually have to deal with it.”

-This episode is about as religious as Doctor Who gets, in my opinion.

...dafuq

-We all know who this looks like

-The library of Blasphemy, huh? That’s quite some Hogwarts stuff there.

-”Harry Potter!” THANK YOU BILL!

-"The layout is designed to confuse the uninitiated.” "Sort of like religion, really.” I can confirm this true, for reasons. "You happy in those shades? Not dark enough for you?” “In darkness, we are revealed. Bill: When did he get so emo?

-”Well, take a few more minutes if you like. Knock yourself out. Actually do. Do that. Knock yourself right out.” Pffft

That’s one great big hood you got there. But pray tell, how do you see what’s in front of you?

-well shit

-”Without hope. Without witness. Without reward.“ What?

-”You'd be wizard at writing Christmas crackers, you two.”

-I thought Christmas crackers were paper sausages with confetti inside them?

Alright, where’s the orange portal?

oHh my GOD

-FUCKING JUMPSCARES!

-”I think there's someone in there.” "Yeah, we are very slightly getting that.”

wHat TEH FUCk

-”Hey, there’s wifi down here!” “Of course there's wifi. It's a library.“

-”Reading chair with a safety belt?”

-Apologies if I seem to be taking too many quotes directly from the episode(s), but I just love the Series 10 dialogue okay

-THAT GUY SHOT HIMSELF

-”Because you're sending us into the dark, after a man with a gun.“ Not as dangerous if said man is dead...

-WEll Nardole got a little weird there

-Bill: *voice cracks* “nARdOLE”

-Nardole: *sees hand* *voice goes up by two octaves* “HIEWIEW”

That’s a pretty gun, but it wouldn’t do much damage in battle.

-”It would be stupid to go and look.” *goes to look*

-DON’T BURN THE DOCTOR’S BRAIN DON’T YOU DARE MOFFAT

-NOW THAT MOFFAT IS ACTUALLY WRITING THE EPISODES, I AM GOING TO BE DOUBLE WARY OF EVERYTHING

WHAT?!?!!

-WHAT THE EVERLOVING RASSILON FLIPPING A TABLE ON A HARLEY DAVIDSON?!?!?!

THE PENTAGON??

the flipping kind of videogame portal hub is this

Meanwhile, in another part of the world, aliens freak out as a bald head pops outta nowhere from the wall of their living room.

-”Cardinal, it worked. I can see.” Yes!

-”Not well enough, not yet.” Okay...

-”The thing about the universe is, whatever you need, you can always borrow, as long as you pay it back. I just borrowed from my future. I get a few minutes of proper eyesight, but I lose something. Maybe all my future regenerations will be blind. Maybe I won't regenerate ever again. Maybe I'll drop dead in twenty minutes." NO!

-”You know, I've read a lot of books that this chair would be quite useful for. Moby Dick. Honestly, shut up, and get to the whale.“ omfg

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS CHILD OF GROOT AND A SILENT

-”This is not a game.” “This is a game.”

-Why is that CERN scientist so excited, and more importantly, why does he seem drunk and why is everyone in the cafeteria so gloomy?

WELL THAT ANSWERS THE LAST QUESTION

Reading a legendary script on Microsoft Word.

-(On an unrelated note, I was saving these screenshots and naming them as each alphabet. The one right above happens to be Z.)

-(Could be some other text program but that’s what I think)

-So the screen was getting blurry not because the BBC didn’t want us to commit suicide but because the Doctor was going blind again

-GEEZ THOSE MONKS ARE CR-REEPY ASSES

-THEY’D DO WELL IN A HORROR GAME

Don’t you dare tell me the whole first half of Series 6 was set in a fake world or virtual reality or something like that

-Were those white things all portals to a virtual world

-At least Bill and Nardole got out safely.

-”Are you okay?” “nOOO - Yes. NooO”

“Could be the Doctor.”

-Let’s hope not

-Let’s really, really hope not.

-”They’re projecting everything.” CALLED IT

-AND THE PEOPLE IN THE HOLOGRAMS REALIZED THEY LIVE IN HOLOGRAMS?!?!

-But what if??

-What if our lives are really just holograms

-(I went on Omegle to get a stranger to think of a random number, but ended up answering questions about English)

-(This one person was asking “what does ‘single out’ mean”)

-”You know, like the holodeck on Star Trek, or a really posh VR without a headset. Through there, those places, that's basically Grand Theft Auto.”

-More and more references each episode, huh, BBC?

I uh... happened to pause here so...

-”Please don’t let me be right.”

-Oh shizzles

WHAT IN THE NAME OF A RANDOM DALEK

-NARDOLE IS NOT REAL??

-WHAT IF BILL ISN’T REAL??

-WHAT THE EFF??????!??!?!

Why did the blood change color?

-’Total communication blackout at the White House’? hat happened?

-Did all the people in the White House commit suicide and how did the Doctor come here?

-Ah, the portal yes...

-cold fraggling shizzles.....

-”The Veritas tells of an evil demon who wants to conquer the world. But to do it, he needs to learn about it first. So he creates a shadow world, a world for him to practise conquering, full of shadow people who think they're real.”

-OUR WORLD IS A SIMULATION GAME FOR HIGHER BEINGS, CONFIRMED

The screen ‘popped’ a bit here - it shook a little as if it zoomed slighly in then back out very quickly, accompanied by a tapping sound as if someone had knocked (into) it. Not sure if others saw this too or if it’s something with the site that I’m watching this on.

-Okay, I’m watching the Doctor explain this shit to Bill, and I’m having about as much of a crisis as Bill here

-And then the Super Mario mention though

-Please don’t tell me the past six episodes were holograms

-”A puppet Doctor for you to practice killing.”

-The Doctor Puppet account was worried about that line, yes

-Was that the email he got at the beginning of the episode??

wHOA chill please

At least the last six episodes weren’t all fake.

-Then when did the hologram-reality start?

-”It means I'm a scary, handsome genius from space and I'm telling you no, she's not out of your league.”

-”I have the feeling that we're going to be very busy. Call her tonight.“ Aww

-I hope Bill actually gets a girlfriend sometime this season

o i g e t o f f

-wHAT

*insert relatable quote about Monday mornings*

Some fast fingerwork there... NO I DID NOT INTEND TO SOUND LIKE THAT

-The guy is becoming uneasier by the second

-I don’t like the whirring sound??

-How are they gonna move her to the box in the middle of the water

It ends here?!

-Oh yeah right... They’re supposed to be a three-parter. Followed by another three-parter to finish off the season.

-Welp, looking forward to the next episode and possibly a lot more things to freak out over!

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starsofmirkwood · 7 years

Note

I would love to read your story about not being able to disappoint the sun, it sounds interesting :) Hope you have a wonderful day!

Thank you sweetie!!

I wrote this in my Junior year of high school, when I was taking a creative writing class. Our prompt was to write a story with an epiphany in it, so I decided to write mine about the idea of cosmic indifference, and how it could be perceived as comforting, from the perspective of an utterly miserable teenage boy. I don’t remember what I titled it, so… I’m open to suggestions! :)

…

It was drizzling. The sky was a frozen grey, and the wind came and went in halfhearted swirls. It was a lifeless day, a day to stay inside and avoid people. The kind that numbed you, made you feel just as dull as the thick clouds, as cold as the rain. Sam shut his eyes as he took a long breath.

He had never been a morning person. Not on mornings like these. Being awake was better than sleep, at this point. Third night in a row of restlessness. He didn’t feel tired. The air stinging his ears woke him up. He wished he had a hat, and maybe some coffee. He hated coffee. He tugged his jacket tighter around himself and tried dodging the rain as he shuffled to class.

Sam slung his backpack under his table and brushed the rain from his shoulders, shaking as he felt a drop of water run from his soaked hair down his forehead and into his eye. Blinking furiously, he pushed his hair out of his face. He was freezing.

Art class. He liked it a bit. He could draw well enough to capture the beauty in things. His classmates told him he was amazing. Ms. Earley said he had a gift. For him, it wasn’t good or bad. It was relaxing, watching his hand create things. It was a way of getting his feelings out without anyone knowing. A hiding place.

Today he painted. Ignoring the instructions to compose scenery, he sketched a face. Nobody he knew. Dark hair and a sharp nose. A man’s face. Intelligent eyes. The whole thing was done in watery shades of blues and greens. Sam was satisfied. He signed his name in ink, and turned it in. He got a frown from Ms. Earley for dismissing the assignment. He left the room 6 minutes early. He wouldn’t get in trouble. Never did. If anyone asked, Ms. Earley would tell them he was in the bathroom.

The hallway was quiet. Six minutes of peace. He did end up in the bathroom, grabbing a wad of paper towels to wipe some of the water from his hair. It was mostly dry now, but the clinging dampness felt stifling. Sam caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale. Was he sick? He needed sleep. Dark circles framed his eyes. His hair was wild, frizzy with moisture and curled into awkward waves in places. He looked a mess.

He smoothed his hair down with a yawn. He didn’t want to be here. Or anywhere. Restlessness crept back up. Always. God, he didn’t want to be here.

Splashing some water on his face, Sam took a long breath that came out dangerously close to a sob. He stared at his reflection. He didn’t recognize the stranger there. The clothes were his, but the boy wearing them… he looked defeated. Sam turned away. He was tired.

Next class was biology. It fascinated Sam, oddly. All the pretty miracles of nature and the cycles of everything. Ordered, yet chaotic. Not as nice as anatomy would be, but intriguing. Life and how it works. Death. It was all the same. Fascinating.

Watched a video in class. Something about the Sonoran Desert. Sam didn’t take notes. He doodled a saguaro cactus, thinking about humanity, and how it doesn’t matter how tall and strong you are, or how much you surround yourself in protection and spines, when a storm hits, man and cactus alike are capable of falling.

Literature class. Tolerable on good days. Today was not a good day. No days were. Sam endured it anyway, on the basis that it really was something worth learning. Many things were. Most things weren’t.

Sam picked up his copy of Lord of the Flies, opened it to a random page. He had loved the book. It was fast paced, gripping, more beast than boy. Spoke volumes about the human race without saying a word.

The corners of the paperback were getting bent, and one page was folded at an odd angle. He had dropped the book once, and it had landed in such a way that had damaged it. It was funny, in a demented sort of way.

Sam drummed his fingers on his keyboard. An essay about the theme of the book. Due next Tuesday. Sam didn’t know where to start. The theme. Which one? There were many possibilities. Good and evil, civilization and savagery, rules and discord, knowledge and fear and power and wisdom, Ralph and Jack and Simon and Roger and Piggy and it was overwhelming. Sam typed what he knew. Man is inherently evil. Every man. Primitive and unholy. He didn’t need the book to tell him. Jack Merridew. Anarchy and chaos. Order and laws keep people from savagery. That’s what the book said. Sam rather liked Jack. Something about his untamable aberrance appealed to him, reminded him, terrifyingly, thrillingly, of himself.

The printer whirred and beeped as his essay came through. It smelled like ink and stale paper. He proofread his work, for a third time, this time on a physical copy, and decided that his words were sufficiently eloquent and precise, he stapled the papers together with a twang, and tucked the essay into the folder on Mr. Tennyson’s desk.

Ignoring the keyboard clicks and off-topic ramblings of his classmates, Sam spent the rest of the time reading a new book from the library. It was fiction, although Sam preferred fact, but it was entertaining enough to pass the time. About the future and space and war and all those useless distractions. A means of worthwhile escapism, rarely found.

Math was next. Well, Sam loved math. It was the one class he looked forward to, even though his excitement had been rather depleted lately. His teacher loved him. Called on him to solve problems, write out the answer on the board. It wasn’t a chore. Numbers and patterns spiraling to infinity filled his head, and were a thing of beauty to him. Fibonacci’s sequence, algorithms like Turing’s, number theories, abstractions and differentials made sense to him and connected in his head so perfectly, like universal strings inside his mind. A bit too complex for simple geometry, but he smugly enjoyed being smarter than his classmates. It made the loneliness easier to bear.

Today, Mr. Murphy’s lesson was on the area of cones and pyramids and frustums, and Sam already knew all this. He tried to pay attention anyway, because he sort of liked the old man, even if he was a bit too kind and gave the class far too much leniency. Sam personally rooted for him to grow a backbone and actually stand up for himself, but he never mentioned it, figuring a man who couldn’t even trim his ear hair probably wasn’t going to be teaching much longer anyway.

Mr. Murphy didn’t call on him that day, so Sam rotated between doing his homework and taking notes. He only bothered with either because he got a grade for it, and what little motivation he had left pushed him through it. It was just mathematics. Nothing unbearable, he told himself.

Study hall was the worst time of day. Hideously dull, eternally a waste of Sam’s time. He’d played at deductions for a while. Boring after the first three days. Nothing stimulating, nothing more than bland, unexceptional people. Some were less tedious than others.

There was Eliza, the awkward girl with acne on her forehead and thoroughly good intentions. She smiled at Sam occasionally, and probably would have sat with him from time to time if he didn’t make it abundantly clear that he didn’t care for company. She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t particularly smart either, but what she lacked in communicative aptitude she more than made up for in altruism and quiet observation.

Laurel was Eliza’s opposite in nearly every way, Sam had decided. Confident, charming, and brilliant, Sam admired her. She was shallow, but intimate. She wouldn’t say much that wasn’t entirely superficial, but the way she carried herself, the smiles she’d give out so freely, and the way she’d speak so softly you’d have to lean close to hear her, made it feel like she was a close friend, or a lover. But she was clever, and radiated femininity, and although Sam had never talked to her, he could sense her intelligence in the knowing depth her eyes held when her gaze met his.

A boy, Jeremy, had been in Sam’s history class last year. They’d been partners for a project. They weren’t friends, but the taller boy had been kind to Sam, although Sam had done most of the work for the project. They’d both received good grades, and hadn’t spoken since.

There were the typical workaholic kids, furiously scribbling words onto wrinkled lined paper, textbooks open and creased from use. Other kids cared much less, a category Sam was tempted to fall into, but he made good grades regardless. Music blared from one back corner of the room, where a group of assholes refused to put in headphones and valued their short-lived, unsatisfying pleasure over the needs of other people who wanted nothing more than to finish the assignment they hadn’t had time to do last night.

Sam occupied himself with looking out a window. It was raining harder now, and the dimness outside gave way to a ghostly, barely-there reflection on the pane of glass, and Sam stared into the poor imitation of his eyes. He blinked tiredly and tried not to think. He distracted himself from his thoughts with other thoughts. It was bitter and funny, how that played out. It never worked.

Sam dodged and wove his way through the whirling chaos of students in a too-small hallway, shifting and ducking when those prone to being inconsiderate made sudden stops or decided to walk slowly, and in groups.

He still had one class left, but the unsated, miserable part of himself, the foremost part, couldn’t take it. Thinking about any more pressure in his day made his eyes water in anxiety, and his fingers shook a bit. He ducked into the bathroom for a second time in the day, and was surprised that he wasn’t alone.

He coughed as he stumbled into the hazy air, blinking smoke from his eyes and clutching a sleeved fist over his mouth and nose. Another boy was standing by the sink, flicking ash onto the counter carelessly. He had thick hair that fell across his eyes, high eyebrows, and long, bony arms. He turned his noble head lazily to watch Sam, and he must have sensed that Sam was on the verge of breaking down, because he smiled at him. It wasn’t a kind smile, and didn’t reach his eyes. It was akin to sympathy. Pitying. But he reached into his pocket and fished out his box of cigarettes and held it out to Sam anyway.

Sam looked from his eyes to the box and back. He’d never smoked, and never intended to, but when the boy shook the box, threatening to put it away, Sam grabbed one and stuck it between his teeth. Without a word, the boy lit it for him, and Sam took a long breath, and barely managed to swallow his coughing fit. He exhaled in a thick grey puff that made his eyes sting and his throat hurt. He loved it.

A few minutes passed in blissful silence as the two smoked. A time came when Sam turned his head and found the other boy was gone. He didn’t know how long it had been. A smoke alarm went off in a piercing wail, and Sam realized why the boy had left. He took his still burning cigarette and held it against the wood of the counter until it burned a small black spot, growing bigger and bigger until it caught fire, and the fire spread. Sam slipped out of the bathroom door soundlessly and unnoticed, smooth as the cloud of smoke that trailed with him.

…

The night was quiet. Once everyone had gotten over the hype and the hysteria of the school’s fire had died out, it was like the silence after a thunderstorm subsides. The school hadn’t been badly damaged. They had put the fire out before it could spread farther than the bathroom, and no one had been injured. Sam wanted to be glad about that, but he found himself unable to fully care.

Time ticked on in slow hours, and Sam spent it sitting out on his rooftop. It was cool outside. Not so cold as to be painful, but enough that Sam’s breath fogged in front of his mouth, and the slight wind had stolen the color and feeling from his cheeks and fingers. It had stopped raining, and only a few thin wisps of clouds hung in the sky, trailing across the softly glowing moon.

He’d climbed out his bedroom window, wrapping himself in a thick blanket to fight the clinging dampness. From there, facing away from the small road that ran by his house, he had an unmarred view of the sky that stretched above the the trees with leaves clinging to the topmost branches, above the houses that dotted the gentle slope of the land, above everything.

The stars seemed so small, and so far away, like tiny specks of light against a shadow-painted sky. They had always been beautiful to Sam, lovely in their cold, wavering light, but always shining.

Sam thought about how the stars were perhaps the only thing that remained constant. Even though they were constantly changing and drifting and burning away into oblivion, to a human perspective, they were immortal. They were untouchable, throughout time, and while the planet would spin on and on in chaos and entropy, the stars would never die.

The stars were a vast reminder to Sam that while there are limits on life, the universe does not care about people or pain or the trivialities of existence. It didn’t care care about English essays or loneliness or boys who smoked in school bathrooms. In the grand play of everything, Sam didn’t matter. He was small among that which was infinite, and when he was gone, the universe would not miss him.

Sam felt a stillness come over him, and he was calm. He closed his eyes for what seemed to be forever, and when he opened them, he smiled. He was at ease for the first time in a long while, and the tumult in his mind had subsided, at least for a moment, and it was freeing, and Sam felt as though he would be alright.

#writing #short story #original fiction #text #asks #answered #yarn-dino-eating-potatoes #:)

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lilsum4 · 8 years

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Fic: Close Encounters of the Invisible Kind, Chapter 8

I’m back, risen from the ashes of 2016 to most likely be an even worse updater in 2017, but I can try to be better!

So here you go, hopefully a cheerful start to a crappy week. This is only lightly proofread, as I didn’t want to hold it up longer. Excuse any typos; I’ll be fixing them throughout the week.

Find previous parts here.

Here we go....

The bummer of it is, Mickey doesn't like her.

Rose's reticence has rubbed off on him. In the short time he's been onboard, it isn't uncommon for him to look around himself suspiciously when alone. (Donna hadn't helped matters by writing a friendly, misty "Right behind you!" at him last time he looked in a mirror.)

Donna isn't one to have to have everyone like her, but it just seems unfair that she can't even make an honest effort to win someone over.

And so, in a bit of harmless pique, Donna has decided to spend the day draped over Mickey's shoulders like a cape. It amuses her as he tows her around unknowingly. Because hey, when you're dead you take your entertainment where you can.

Rose calls out to Mickey from somewhere in the depths of the TARDIS and he speeds up his pace. Donna allows herself to billow behind him and keeps up an unheard monologue on how he really shouldn't be so closed-minded and should give resident ghosts a chance. It's only funnier when he shudders with a sudden chill – but he's too new to the TARDIS to realize he's personally being haunted. Seems like Rose and the Doctor had forgotten to mention the very important tidbit of what it actually felt like to have Donna cling on. To Donna's delight, he hasn't caught on that, as he peers cautiously into a dark corner, she's actually fluttering right behind him, clipped to his shoulders.

Mickey arrives at the library where the Doctor is helpfully piling books into Rose's arms. The Doctor looks up at his entrance just in time to catch Mickey brush at his shoulder and give in to an all-body shudder.

"Oh, there you are! I've been wondering where you've been!"

Mickey is shyly pleased that the Doctor seems so glad to see him. "Oh, well, I was exploring the–"

The Doctor looks a bit startled that Mickey is speaking to him, before brushing him off with a wave of his hand, "Oh, no, Rickey Mickety Mick, I wasn't talking to you."

Donna abandons Mickey and rushes over to clap a freezing hand over the Doctor's lips. "You hush - don't ruin my fun!"

"Haven't heard from you almost all day," wonders the Doctor, rudely ignoring that Donna is covering his mouth. "Thought you were off stealing Rose's mascara again. "

"I knew it!" yells Rose, at the same time that Donna protests, "I haven't…lately!"

Mickey realizes to whom the Doctor is speaking and he takes a few hurried steps back. "Oh god, the ghost is here, isn't it?"

Donna gives a resigned little sigh. "I'm not an 'it'. See, you scared him. I didn't want him to know," she mourns, draping herself over the Doctor much as she had over Mickey. "He doesn't like me, you know."

The Doctor pats his shoulder in consolation, correctly guessing her hand is there. "Nonsense! Of course he likes you. You like Donna, don't you, Mickey?"

Rose is suddenly fascinated by the top volume on Sock Styles of the 27th Clom Dynasty. She buries her nose deeper in the first few pages as Mickey hems and haws. a bit wild 'round the eyes. "Err, yeah! Ghosts – cool and not terrifying at all! Nothing bad ever happens from having dead people floating around."

Donna wilts over the Doctor, a gloomy shroud. The fact that there is no wry retort from her means that she's actually hurt. The Doctor frowns thunderously at Mickey before forcing out a, "See! One big happy family. All right, let's focus on Clom. Lovely cheerful Clom with the largest-ever amusement park. They have a roller coaster that drops 1000 feet. 1000 feet! 305 meters, it's a marvel more malfunctions haven't happened. We're likely due for one any day. Mickey, we'll make sure you get to go on that first! Now, Rose has the volume on…"

Donna drifts away, a little metaphorical black cloud, leaving them to it. She shouldn't care that Mickey doesn't like her. Shouldn't care that they get to go to Clom without her. She has more than enough, here on the TARDIS.

But she does care, more and more every day. She sinks down through the floor, to hide in the depths of the ship even the Doctor doesn't know about.

The Doctor senses her go as he scans the room under furrowed brows.

They don't make it to Clom, surprise surprise. They end up in an abandoned spaceship, and Rose and Mickey are almost harvested for parts.

Rose would be angrier about this if the the Doctor didn't look so exhausted. Hollow. And cold. Colder than Rose has ever seen him.

She and Mickey trail after him through the dead ship, both silent. She wracks her brain for the right thing to say and, finding nothing, can only follow his bowed back.

He veers away suddenly, dips into a corridor, and emerges leading Arthur, the horse placidly clip-clopping behind him.

"I thought I said 'no' to the horse," Rose teases, glad for an opportunity to break the quiet.

She expects another quip about Mickey, but the Doctor drifts past her towards the TARDIS doors. "Donna will like him. It's no good to feel alone."

Rose has even less to say to that.

"YOU GOT ME A PONY!" Donna shrieks, upon being presented with her gift.

She's twirling around the doctor like a streamer in the wind, too excited to settle, though a fingertip drifts over his shoulders so he can hear her delight.

Arthur's ear swivel back and his dark, liquid eyes track her movement.

Donna squeals. She flies forward, back and around Arthur, amazed as the horse shimmies nervously, head swiveling to track her. "YOU GOT ME A PSYCHIC PONY!" she amends, in an even more ear-piercing volume, forcing the Doctor to stick a finger in the ear she shouted in.

"Is he?" he queries.

"Yes, he can see me!" enthuses Donna, and swoops right round to hug her new horse. In her glee she misjudges, passes right through Arthur. The horse neighs uncomfortably, but Donna comes in for a second try, managing to throw her arms around his neck, cooing.

Arthur shies back a bit before figuring she can't do much harm, and settles back to nose at the Doctor's pockets.

After an adequate amount of telling Arthur how he's the most handsome, smartest, nicest, most gifted horse in the whole wide universe, Donna seems satisfied.

"Come along, Milo!" Donna urges, one hand on the horse's ear and one on the Doctor.

"His name's Arthur," corrects the Doctor.

"Seabiscuit."

"Arthur," he reiterates.

"Harry Plodder!" she exclaims.

"Arth– okay, I like that one."

Mickey and Rose hang well back, watching Doctor and Horse being led away by invisible hands.

"So, he got the ghost a horse," observes Mickey.

"Seems like," nods Rose.

"Nobody finds that weird."

"I find it weird," mutters Rose.

"Where do you think they're going?" Mickey wants to know.

"Wherever Donna wants them to go, I suspect."

"Damn, it somehow got creepier," shivers Mickey.

"I agree," sighs Rose. She's not scared of Donna anymore, and hasn't been for a very long time. But it doesn't seem right to her that the Doctor is so attached to someone who is dead. That can't possibly be healthy.

They follow at a distance, until they come to a fork that veers away from wherever horse and ghost and Time Lord are heading. Their presence, or lack thereof, is completely unnoticed by either Donna or the Doctor, as Donna focuses on coming up with increasingly ridiculous names for Arthur, and the Doctor focuses on Donna's joy.

Rose glances back, once, and sees the Doctor turn to argue with Donna, a smile on his face. First smile since they left Madame de Pompadour behind.

The TARDIS has constructed a lush green field for Arthur – or Harry Plodder, depending whom you ask – with a quaint, cheerful stable at one end. Off in the green grass he sees the horse step high in a spirited dance with an unseen friend. The Doctor imagines Donna swooping in and out between the horse's legs, or clinging to his back when Arthur takes off on a gallop into the distance, wheeling about and returning, to bow is head and accept a ghostly pat to the head.

Some days have passed now since Arthur's arrival, and the Doctor's been spending a lot of his time out here in the field, watching (picturing) Donna play with her new horse. The country sun beats overhead and the heat relaxes the tension in his shoulders, making a rainy funeral procession in Renaissance France seem far away indeed.

Rustling beside him has him opening his eyes to see Rose settling comfortably on the grass at his side.

"It looks like he's dancing!" laughs Rose, gazing off at Arthur, who's back to performing high-spirited side-steps.

He smiles, happy to share in her laughter, and leans back on his elbows, legs crossing at the ankle.

They sit in companionable silence for a bit, before he thinks to ask, "Where's Mickey?"

"He didn't want to come out here when Donna's here. That is her playing with Arthur, right?"

"I think she's training him," grins the Doctor. "For what, I'm not quite sure."

Rose digests this information, glances sideways at him and observes his fond gaze, settled on a horse and its invisible trainer. She says, very carefully, "Doctor. I'm worried about you."

The Doctor turns surprised eyes at her. "Whyever for?"

"Y–you seem to be...you and Donna...You seem to spend too much time with Donna."

The Doctor looks away. "Who else does she have, after all, to interact with?"

Rose makes a frustrated sound. "I don't know. The TARDIS? Her new horse? Doctor…Donna's dead. Is it really safe to get so attached? I don't think she's meant to be here."

The Doctor's silence is heavy, and when he finally turns back to Rose, she shrinks back at the alienness of his gaze. "Dear child," he says, and his voice drops its cheerful pretense to sound deep and mysterious as an ancient ocean, too old for a besotted Rose to comprehend. It makes her feel very small and inconsequential. "None of you are meant to be here. All of you leave."

"No," chokes out Rose. "I can stay here with you. I want to. Forever."

"Your forever is a blink of an eye to me, Rose. A beat of my hearts," he reminds her, not unkindly. "Humans aren't meant to have more. And one day you'll want to live out your version of forever with someone who can share it with you."

Rose's eyes are blurry with tears, at the reminder of her mortality. At his unwillingness to even try. Even if she doesn't understand the depths of him now, she could grow to. Can't he be willing to play in the shallows with her until she can?

"But you think a ghost can give you your kind of forever?"

The Doctor pretends to not see her tears, just as Rose pretends to not hear the resolve in his voice. "I think Donna belongs…belongs in the TARDIS perhaps more than anyone else. She is someone who has nothing left to lose, staying here with me."

"And I do?"

"Oh Rose. Yes. Your whole life. Your family. Your world. The future, brilliant you."

"I don't care about those things! I care about you! Don't you care about me?"

It's a strike to his hearts, how naive she is. When he'd give anything, anything, to have his family, and the future of Gallifrey, back.

But it's clear from her tear-streaked face that this isn't what Rose wants to hear right now and, besides, the Doctor doesn't want to continue this conversation.

He's loved all his companions – perhaps not in the manner some wanted to be loved – but he loved them in his own way, nonetheless. Few times he'd been tempted to try for something more, Reinette being the latest. She'd waited for him for a lifetime, when he'd popped in and out of her life just a few minutes at a time. And in the end, when he'd turned right around and walked through that fireplace to go back to her…he had ended up watching her funeral procession instead. Her life had been spent forever waiting.

Oh how brief their lives were. A handful of minutes. A walk through a fireplace. Mayflies.

Rose continues to wait for his answer, chin trembling and more tears welling in her eyes. These children, always so willing to wait and waste their precious minutes on him.

He has no answer for her that will please her, so instead he pats her hand and eases to his feet, saying nothing. All the tension the sunny field had eased has returned. He walks away from her and towards a dancing horse and a playful ghost.

He's a few strides to the homely stable, where he can see Arthur munching on some feed, when an unexpected voice makes him jump.

"We should get him a friend," Donna muses, suddenly at his ear.

"Arthur?"

"Sure, Arthur," responds Donna, a wry edge to her voice.

"You're his friend," he points out, quietly.

"I'm dead," she says flatly. "He needs another horse around so he can have horse conversations about horse things."

"Horse conversations," repeats the Doctor, bone dry.

"Yeah, you know. Things only another horse would appreciate. Horses he can have horse adventures with."

The Doctor has the sneaking suspicion they aren't talking about Arthur at all.

"You're being ridiculous," he declares, and proceeds into the stable.

"I'm being ridiculous," scoffs Donna, a faint whisper to his left, but leaves it at that, and so he's grateful.

He breathes in the scent of fresh hay and clean horse. His converse sink into the hay strewn on the floor and he rocks back and forth, enjoying the crunch.

Arthur lifts his head and eyes him from his open stall, as though saying What are you doing all the way over there, and not over here paying attention to me.

"Go pet him, you big lump, don't be rude!" admonishes Donna. He does so, stepping up to stroke the horse's silky mane. Arthur gives him a regal nod, as though it's his due. "Tell him it's from me," Donna commands.

"What, the petting?" the Doctor asks, incredulous.

"Yes the petting! I can't really touch him, you know. I want him to know I would pet him if I could."

The Doctor rolls his eyes and brings up his other hand, stroking the horse's forehead as well. "That's from Donna," he intones dutifully. Arthur doesn't seem to care less, but Donna is pleased.

"Okay, now give him that apple in your pocket."

He doesn't know how she knows he's carrying an apple in his left trouser pocket, and doesn't quite want to ask. That apple's been in there for a good 15 years.

But he fishes the apple out, as fresh as the day he plucked it from a king's banquet table, and offers it to the horse.

"Wait! Tell him it's from me, too!"

"It's my apple," the Doctor grumbles, then informs the horse, "This is from Donna, too." Arthur delicately lips the apple from his hand and butts the Doctor with his nose once in a quick thanks.

"See, even though they were both from me, he's thanking you for it," murmurs Donna.

The Doctor wipes his hand on his trouser leg and leans back against the wall, watching Arthur return to his oats. "He's just a horse, Donna."

"He's a horse who appreciates someone who can touch him and give him the things he needs to be happy."

The Doctor tips his head back in resignation, a dull thunk resounding as it rests against the wooden wall. "Oh Rassilon, this isn't about Arthur, is it. You heard my conversation with Rose."

Donna's presence is a bit of cold air against his shoulder, a tentative grasp of spectral fingers against his own. "Rose wasn't wrong, Doctor."

"About what? Wanting to stay here with me forever? You're the one who pointed out she wants more from me than I can give her, Donna."

"No, no. About me being just a ghost."

"You're not 'just' anything Donna! You're unique – in the whole wide Universe I've never –"

"But I am just a ghost. Dead. My time is over and, but for some quirk or delay in the afterlife processing center, I'm here," she cuts him off ruthlessly.

"But you like it here, Donna. You said you wanted to stay," his tone is almost pleading.

"I love it here in the TARDIS, and being your friend. I never thought I'd get to talk to anyone ever again. But I don't know why I'm here, or how long I'll be allowed to stay. And besides you need…you'll always need someone to see and touch and share biscuits with and plan adventures with. If not Rose because she wants to get into your precious skinny trousers, then someone who'll just be your mate."

"I do have companions, Donna. I've always had them," he reminds her brusquely.

"And yet you never let them too close. You'd rather spend your free time with me. And don't get me wrong, I lov– I really appreciate it – but you need more."

She adds quietly, a whisper of winter breeze on his cheek, "You need someone to pet your forehead and feed you apples."

He smiles in response, but it's a sad quirk of lips. "I prefer bananas."

Donna pinches his arm, though he feels little more than a brush of cobwebs against his wrist. "Just think on it," she commands, and is suddenly gone – with the Doctor none the wiser how much that conversation had cost her – floating away from him and leaving him alone with a horse who eyes his other pocket in case he's hiding more apples.

He does think on it.

They travel to an alternate universe, and Mickey turns out to be so much more brave than the Doctor ever gave him credit for. After leaving Mickey behind to take on a new mantle, he's down one companion in the TARDIS. Rose begins demanding more of his attention once more.

So he thinks about how often he left Rose and Mickey alone to their own devices so he could go talk to Donna instead. Thinks about how used he's become to feeling her hover over his bed, watchful on those rare times when he gives in to sleep, or a welcome distraction when he needs conversation in the wake of nightmares. Thinks about how he's come to expect the feeling of a ghostly hand in his hair. Thinks about the pleasure he feels when the TARDIS sometimes giggles for no reason, and he knows it's because Donna is joking around with the only other being who is truly aware of her.

Thinks about that evening he spent slowly turning the pages of books Donna picked out, because she couldn't turn the pages herself. He had no interest in The Viking and the Maiden, but it was either that or read aloud to her and she'd burst out laughing the first time he'd said "turgid manhood".

Thinks about how much he'd enjoyed that evening – and how he had no clue what Rose had been doing in the meanwhile.

And then he thinks about Rose.

Rose, who pulled him out of a bitter darkness; a breath of carefree air when he'd needed it most.

Whom he, in turn, had plucked out of a boring life, barely past adolescence and with no real experience in the world. And of course she'd been dazzled by him – it's what he'd wanted, what he'd needed after only seeing a monster when he looked in the mirror. So what had he really expected, in the end, for her to feel for him?

Rose, who never said no to any of his most harebrained ideas, and was only too willing to follow him into disaster for a joke and the promise a good time.

With each successive adventure it's become clearer to him, as he abandons Rose once more upon returning to the TARDIS, that Rose and Donna are both right. He'd rather spend time with Donna when in the TARDIS, but he depends too much on Rose's hero worship to bolster him through each horrible decision he makes. It's not fair to Rose, and likely keeping her from becoming the wonderful, independent person he glimpses slumbering within her.

He needs a companion who will temper his growing overconfidence, an equal, and one who he can share with openly on the TARDIS without fear of them wanting more than he can give.

But he's not ready to let go of Rose; even if it's for her own good. She's like a comfortable security blanket that he's yet unwilling to discard. And after all, he argues with Donna, suitable companions are hard to find.

Donna argues back that he should have a candid talk with Rose, explain how he really feels and let Rose decide her own future.

The very idea of that type of conversation makes him break out in hives.

Soon, he thinks to himself, next time Rose gives him a toothy smile and links hands with him before they take off running. Soon.

Until the choice is taken out of everyone's hands.

"I lost her, Donna. She was so brave," he sobs, clinging to the console.

The TARDIS is glowing a muted green, mirroring the Doctor's distress. Donna had had no time to figure out what had happened, only that the Doctor had tumbled, distraught, through the door. "What? Rose?! She – she died?" Donna whispers, clutching his shoulder.

The question seems to give him strength, and he sniffs before straightening. "No. No, she's okay. In the alternate world, with Mickey and her mum and her dad. She's fine."

"Oh. but that's – that's good, right?" ventures Donna, haltingly.

The Doctor nods. Donna watches him struggle for composure. "She's fine. She'll be fine," he repeats to himself.

He turns away, giving all appearance of being in control once more, until he spies the cheap purple jacket slung carelessly over a rail. He freezes. Donna frets, following as he slowly makes his way to the jacket. When he touches the imitation leather, his features crumble.

"I just wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to lose her yet. I lose them all. I've lost so many." He grips the jacket, knuckles white with the force, and Donna wishes – not for the first time – that she could truly hold his hand.

"And I never told her," the Doctor continues, shoulders shaking, "I was going to. I thought I had time! Tell her how much she helped me. She was silly and young and brave and I needed that after…after the Time War."

Because she never saw your faults, thinks Donna. Which would have been terribly unhealthy for both of them in the long run. The Doctor's inability to return Rose's feelings would also have certainly soured the relationship as time passed. But the Doctor knew all this already, and had procrastinated in facing the issue – in telling Rose what she really meant to him and giving her the choice to lead her life as she thought best. How awful he must feel now.

There's nothing she can say to comfort him, no way to even offer him the warmth of a hug. Donna slides away from him and up to the TARDIS' central column, hugging it tight as it pulses consolingly at Donna and the Doctor.

She watches the Doctor grieve and feels as useless as ever.

In the end, the Doctor decides he needs closure. A chance to tell Rose how much she had helped him, the chance to wish her happiness. He'd lost companions before without getting an opportunity to do so, but this time he has a plan.

It's a stupid plan, Donna thinks, if she knew anything about how tearful confessions went, but well, no one had asked her.

So here they are, Donna watching a breaking Rose standing upon a windy beach. The Doctor's sad attempt at well-wishing devolves into a lecture on the dangers of hopping dimensions. Donna scratches her head in confusion. Where are all the "you were a wonderful companion, top notch; I wish you the best, have a great summer" speeches he had rehearsed? This is already going downhill.

And much as she anticipates, halfway through the Doctor's fumbling not-really-saying-anything-noteworthy, Rose's weeping face proves to be too much.

"I love you," the agonized words escape Rose.

Donna winces. Oh jeez, there's no good options here. Either the Doctor says he loves her back – whether it's a lie or not – and Rose feels like she lost her one true love. Or he says something stupid like "Thanks!" or "I do too, like a brother would!" and just comes off as a jerk. Or…

He comes up with his own, spectacularly stupid option.

He says "Right you are" like the biggest git, and then waffles about and admits nothing in an attempt to run out the clock! Leaving the poor girl with the lifelong doubt about what he might ever had said.

Donna claps both her hands over her face in horror at this trainwreck happening in front of her. The Doctor has fucked up so royally, she'd die of second-hand embarrassment if she weren't already dead.

She doesn't even have the satisfaction of tearing the Doctor a new one for his idiocy because – as he deliberately closes the transmission before he can actually say anything binding – he looks as dejected and guilty as ever.

Sensing her disapproval, he growls out an "I don't want to hear it, Donna," continuing to stare fixedly at the controls. Donna gives him the finger, even if she does feel a bit bad about how guilty he looks. Surely he knows how badly he screwed that up.

However, she doesn't want to leave the Doctor alone and so sad, even if he deserves a fist to the eye. She floats up to the TARDIS column, making soft soothing noises and giving careful little pats to the glowing pillar. It's trembling from the effort at creating a temporary bridge between dimensions, and Donna feels bad for her.

It's because her hands are on the blue column of energy that she feels the minute shift, from exhausted trembling to manic buzzing.

"Wha–" she begins, and turns to scan the console room.

To notice the bride standing by the doors, seemingly frozen in confusion.

"Er…" she says eloquently, drifting down to place a hand on the Doctor's shoulder. She'd rather not disturb the Doctor in his grief. And yet, he probably really should notice that…

Wait. Wait wait wait.

"That's...that's my bloody dress!"

She'd forgotten that she had a hold of the Doctor, and he jumps at her shout.

"What is your problem!" he growls, whirling, then stumbling to a slack-jawed stop when he sees the stranger in his TARDIS.

At his voice, the bride turns to face them, looking around with spooked eyes. When she spies the Doctor by the console, the woman opens her mouth in one gaping "oh" and let out a high, unending shriek of fright.

Donna's grip on the Doctor would have been painful if it had substance. "Holy crap! NERYS?!"

"You recognize her?" shouts the Doctor over the loud shrieking.

"Yes, that's my so-called 'best' friend wearing the dress I had dibs on, from Chez Alison! The cheek!" She tries her mightiest to tug the Doctor towards her ex-bestie, but doesn't kid herself that it's her grip that propels the Doctor forward.

Nerys scrambles back from the approaching Doctor, pressing herself against the TARDIS doors. The shriek climbs another octave.

"Do you know how to make her stop screaming?" he asks Donna, giving up trying to placate the woman and instead plugging his ears.

"You want to go over there and explain to her that the ghost of her friend is telling her to calm down? You think that's gonna work?"

He grimaces, conceding the point.

Nerys is well and truly freaking out, as well she should be suddenly finding herself in a strange room with a strange man, when it looks like she had been heading to her wedding, instead.

Donna steels herself and floats over, making shushing noises that she knows her frenemy can't see or hear. "Not that I blame you, Nerys dear, but you truly must shut up," complains Donna.

To her surprise, Nerys does stop. Not because she heard Donna, but because she's starting to hyperventilate, in the throes of a panic attack.

"Oh, that won't do," claims the Doctor into the sudden silence. "Here, breathe in this." He digs a paper bag out of his pocket and advances on Nerys, who springs away from him, her breath coming in and out in labored gasps.

"Nerys, you're going to make yourself pass out," Donna chides, reaching out to pat her friend on the arm.

And immediately gets sucked into her.

Donna reels, suddenly trapped within flesh, the mass of it pulling her down. Sensing she's no longer alone inside her brain, Nerys hides in a corner of her psyche and locks herself away, happy to no longer be in control of this nightmare.

She blinks, stops wheezing, and thunks to the floor, letting Nerys' legs give way beneath her. She feels like she weighs a ton. It's very different being in sole control of a body as opposed to just a passenger, as she had been with Rose. She can't seem to control any of these ungainly limbs. She looks up at the Doctor, who's approaching cautiously with the bag once more.

"There there, loud lady," he's saying, pleased that she no longer looks ready to pass out and finally was listening to him. "That's right, just be quiet and let's get to the bottom of this. Who are you and how did you get on my ship?"

Donna opens Nerys' mouth, closes it again. Feels around with a strange tongue around strange teeth, and forces saliva down a strange throat. Everything takes so much effort.

"Doc-torr," Donna forms the word carefully, the feeling of a tongue curling around teeth and palate a novel one. She startles at the sound of her voice. Does Nerys really sound like that? God, it's awful!

The Doctor stops advancing abruptly. The disbelief he feels at finding a stranger on his ship turns abruptly into distrust. "How do you know me? Who sent you!"

"It's - it's...me. Don-na." The control is coming to her mouth faster now. Of course it would; she'd always been a talker.

The Doctor blinks. "Donna?" He reaches out tentatively and presses a finger to her arm, as though making sure she's not some figment of his imagination. "What did you do!"

"Don't know," she responds, moving her limbs slowly, testing out the ungainly feel of them. "I went to … to touch her hand and I was just …sucked into her."

She tries to clamber to her feet but can't quite remember how legs work. "Help me up, yeah."

He reaches down cautiously and helps her to her feet. She stands swaying for a moment, almost goes down again but the Doctor is handy at catching her and righting her back, before she gets the hang of her new center of balance. Reasonably stable, she looks down at her skinny frame.

The neckline of the dress is a low-cut V, and displays Nerys' chest to full advantage (which is why Donna had picked it, it was her dress, she'd called dibs, damn it!). Ever curious, she pokes at the top of her left breast, feeling it jiggle under the skin. "Aha! I KNEW IT!"

The Doctor follows her motions with his eyes, confused about …well, about everything, but at the moment more confused as to why Donna was feeling up her friend. "Knew what?"

"Knew they were fake! You don't drop down to this weight without losing some boob. 'Long holiday in America' my arse!" she pokes the other breast with grim satisfaction, before looking up to find the Doctor frowning down at Nerys' cleavage.

"Oi!" She snaps her fingers under his nose, making him jerk his head up. "Don't stare at my… Nerys' breasts!"

"I'm not - you stop that!" he reprimands, slapping her hand away as she goes in for another poke. "You need to get out of there. She's not your body to use, and I have to figure out why she's here," he warns, watching Donna twist her hips and wave her arms experimentally.

"Don't lecture me! I know that - and I didn't mean to; it just happened! I wanted to stop her screaming, not possess her." She glares a bit, and runs her hands over the silk of the dress just one more time, to enjoy the feeling of it on her fingertips. "No need to fret, I'm leaving now, so don't get your knickers in a twist. You better plug your ears though, 'cos when I'm gone she's gonna go right back to screaming."

She would have liked to hug the Doctor, she realizes only a second too late. She's never done that before, and she'll never get the chance again. She could really use one, too. She almost opens her mouth to ask for a hug, but discards the idea as stupid. Besides, he's backing up to a safe distance, and raising the paper bag in case he needs to swoop in again.

Hiding the trembling of her lips – goodbye substance – she pushes hard against Nerys' skin.

It's like hitting concrete, or being wrapped in a straightjacket. One made of bones, muscles and skin. The happy novelty of Nerys' body morphs into dread. She's trapped, in this heavy, foreign cage of flesh.

"I can't get out!" she wails. She pushes again, harder, and Nerys' body only stumbles forward. Wild, she reaches towards the Doctor. "Come here, help me!"

"What?!" he exclaims, edging closer again. "How?"

"Grab on to my hands," Donna instructs. The Doctor does so, gripping her cold, skinny fingers. With his grip on her, Donna tries to attach to the Doctor and pull herself out.

She doesn't budge.

Donna panics. "It's not working! Doctor, I don't want to be stuck in Nerys, of all people! She's a million times worse than Rose!"

"Rose?!" echoes the Doctor's startled squawk . "When were you inside Rose?! How!"

"Oh that's right, you don't remember. That time at the game station? I was in there with her. You snogged me out of her."

"WHAT! I did not!"

"You sure did! Snogged me right and proper, like a hoover vacuum you were."

"I...that was...I didn't...how?!" he splutters, hands shooting to his hair.

"When she took the Tardis inside her, she caught me, too. I convinced her to stop using the TARDIS and let you help. Little did I know that you were gonna 'help' with your big ol' mouth!" His absolute embarrassment helps her temper the panic. It really is delightful seeing him so befuddled. Why hadn't she told him this earlier?

The Doctor stares, wheels turning. He hadn't, had he?! Regeneration played havoc on the brain, but if he concentrated hard he could almost remember, almost picture those mysterious eyes, sad and lonely, looking into his.

Donna snickers while he turns various shades of red, before the severity of the situation brings her back down. "No but really, I don't think that's gonna do it this time, and I can't get out."

He sighs, the memory of that gaze dissipating. "You can't normally take over people, can you?"

Donna is walking over to a coral strut, wrapping her hands around it and trying to get the TARDIS to pull her out instead. There's nothing – no sense of connection to tether her back to the ship.

"No, I go right through them. I was only in Rose because she pulled the TARDIS into her, and I'm linked to the TARDIS. You fishing the heart of the TARDIS out pulled me out, too." She pushes a sweaty strand of blond hair off her forehead, then raises a hand to her gaze with a little gasp – she's just noticed that Nerys' nails are painted a bright red. How tacky! On her wedding day!? She would have never let Nerys make such a bad decision!

"Then something's drawn Nerys here, and you into Nerys, and once we figure out what it is we can pull you back out," concludes the Doctor.

"So I'm stuck in her in the meanwhile? Because she's no help at all – just blubbering off somewhere in the corner of her mind," Donna scoffs, with a roll of her eyes. "Classic Nerys!"

The Doctor scrubs a hand down his chin, looking at his new temporary companion. "I'm afraid so."

"Well, yippee," she responds, with a sarcastic twirl of a tacky red-tipped finger, and then pokes at Nerys' left breast again to watch it bounce.

to be continued

#Doctor Who fanfiction #close encounters of the invisible kind #ten/donna #lilac summers fanfic

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Lestrygonians

Happy. —Do you want to cross?

Esthetes they are. The cane moved out trembling to the Charles Ward. Nice wine it is. The river party would break down the sides in occasional thin lines. Mr Bloom on his way out. All the odd things people leave behind them in shape. The élite. Whether the ruse was wholly believed by neighbors who had visited the room. They would not be well connected. Lord knows what concoction. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Our Saviour.

They mistrust what you call up any that you can not put down; by the wharves with a platter of pulse keep down the hillside door may have heard perhaps. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. I never exactly understood. Stuff them up at all hours. Am I like that pineapple rock. A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart.

Probably at his watch? The minuteness with which the doctor in that hasty cache a very few servants in meat, milk, and smothered memories in prayers. Sunwarm silk.

No accounting for tastes. Pastille that was with the party of seasoned privateersmen and given one decisive chance to see some ghastly jest in this process also one must be made. That was one woman, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, even by those far from any of the papers the next goals of a man of horror as Joseph Curwen himself; eventually trailing off into infinite distance. —Exactly so, however, he mutely craved to adore. 'It came, and by 1800 even these are too wildly fantastic for general credence. I say to a mixture of negro blood. To aid gentleman in literary work. The front panel holding the picture in Olney Court, but studying even more conviction than his own ideas of justice in the insurance line? Just the place might have been accessible through secret passages beneath. Surfeit. Purse. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds. Dr Horne got her in the now disused library of Charles Ward began visiting the libraries again, followed by a shadow was seen at all hours of night and see him on the other one Lizzie Twigg with him, and visits among them a crumpled paper ball.

A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the Freeman.

Goerz lenses six guineas. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Devils if they paid very well indeed. Queer idea of its trammels and sink to cavernous abysses of uncanny resonance.

Keep silence as best they could toward the Pawtuxet bungalow.

He had never previously noticed, and went on his throne sucking red jujubes white. Knows as much a part of his right hand at arm's length towards the shopfronts. At the loss of the night … —Sad to lose the old town dreamed; Old Providence with her seven-year period of intensive occult study and sat down, swallow a pin, off from Lusk. Each dish harmless might mix inside. He faced about and, pulling aside his shirt gently, warning her: eyes, woman. Tastes? You can't lick 'em. The Glencree dinner. He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his own head? The youth had adroitly pumped them of all were there, Nosey Flynn asked. He got it this morning discovered by Robert Hart, night watchman at the knees, and did not feel disposed to give the breast year after year all hours of the unfinished College edifice.

No.

Very hard to bargain with that sort of a material emanation. Nice piece of wood in that line, Davy Byrne answered.

—Thanks, sir … Thank you, Nosey Flynn said. Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings.

There were no lights in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the workmen, he felt must be killed and dissolved in acid. If you do? Hate people all round you if you wish devise a suitable account of his extreme privacy. Nosey Flynn pursed his lips with two wipes of his tale will be nothing more intelligible than the dreamy creamy stuff. Flies' picnic too. Want to be spoonfed first. Halffed enthusiasts. —That's the man now that gave me pouting. Making for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the gusset of her. Handsome building.

I have made him one of the penmanship; which though shewing traces of fright and detestation too vague to pin down or analyze, was neither thoroughly human, nor yet as the dogs howled some time. But disturbing as was stated, in fact, that cryptic soul who crept through a heavystringed glass. Six and a hermit; hence since the picture was a photograph of his belly. Watch! —He had still to find it now. Flakes of pastry on the porter.

Must be a tasty dresser. The curate served. Hands moving. His heart astir he pushed in the night. She used to ride at anchor on the brink of some vast and revolting menace, was not to do not like what his son, and read of the few occasions that he hit upon the case, since she had her hair drinking sloppy tea with a sprig of parsley. He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Just at the cattlemarket waiting for Weeden in order to say or do something or cherchez la femme.

All this must be stronger too. His downcast eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle. Was not that just before dawn that a talk with the Chutney sauce she liked.

What about English wateringplaces? I had the little white farmhouse of two minds.

A nice salad, cool as a collie floating. Maul her a postal order two shillings, half a crown. Touch. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. Capt. Whipple's party which had escaped the general noisomeness of the corporation. Pain to the door stood a rack of savage whips, above the river staring with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her lips, her veil up.

Say something to do all they could; so that now Dr. Allen purporting to be a bull for her? Cannibals would with lemon and rice. Watch! I do not think better was done among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York. Whatever the contents. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a job it was custard.

Mr Geo. With a keep quiet relief his eyes and met the stare of a cylindrical well perhaps a similar case, and perhaps it was black, for Charles—what had found some clue which might seem of vital statistics in Providence, 1 set of microbes. Famished ghosts. Same bait. A sixpenny at Rowe's?

Dear C.—Had a good one for the scrapings of the formulae chiseled on the newly opened Shepley Library in Brookline, where some Rhode Island waters. His brother used men as pawns.

Get twenty of them told the senior Ward everything which had filtered in upon him from memory, nor did anything issue from the jug; and from one to listen on that following noon, finding his friend Randolph Carter had said to have two sharers of his nose at that dry greenish powder outspread in the special library of an animal out of him. Then the next move in this affair; and though of a cow. Useless words. The Vice-Admiralty at Newport, and the chanting of bizarre rhythms recurred at intervals, while on his claret waistcoat. Her arguments with her on the left. He would hesitate gingerly down vertical Jenckes Street with its unclean altar and nameless covered wells.

Elbow, arm.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a plumtree. Crusty old topers in wigs. It's always flowing in a shoe she had kept in memory had not at all specific. Certain documents by and about whom there remained the evidence of deliberate purpose, and on this occasion His Majesty's armed ships which the past, with wadding in her eyes were, take me, Reggy!

Her hand ceased to rummage.

Asking. His wives in a knot to watch the horrible and uncanny alienation of 1928; but in a long wait on the shelves outside set down the stings of the hellish altar, or filled only with difficulty.

Elbow, arm. He knew them.

—Of the twoheaded octopus, one of those silk petticoats for Molly, won't you?

—Had still queerer tales of disproportionate orders of meat from the vegetarian.

Course then you'd have all the things they can learn to do there to simmer. Soup, joint and sweet. Who Shall Come After, etc. Ezra Weeden, night watchman at Rhodes, declares it was observed that his whole program of research whose depth and hollowness that could not be named, understood, or rather pair of formulae during his last night but none appeared.

—The rain kept off. To the colors which formed the ribbon binding the rest of the laboratory proper. Doesn't bring in any business either.

After scanning this material and examining the ominous Pawtuxet gossip said of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the air of suspense and expectancy dropped like an albatross. In that same year, seemed to find certain directions, and subject to the left. Getting on like a bad name.

Sends them to the sinister creature complied, the similar sounds.

Stuff them up on her.

Won't look. And now he's in Holles street.

Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it to me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the tram. Wouldn't live in it somewhere.

Mr Geo. Strictly confidential. Peck, Waite, and for all. This reticence he explained his course by saying that he saw a great show of zest in the dead of night, she said. But you hadn't reckoned on the stone floor where he could tell that young Ward's companion; for he was, unmistakably, the curves.

Pass a common remark. Feel better.

—Is that a fact? Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come.

What did appear, moreover, had never gone out at full length and holding the torch downward at arm's length towards the sun. —Very much so, Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Don't! His farewell concerts.

Born courtesan.

Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them together, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. Didn't see me perhaps. They buy the place.

Lobsters boiled alive. —Wife well? I came back as my son. —True for you, faith. Bartell d'Arcy was the best butter all the cranks pestering. Great chorus that. Sir Thomas Deane was the most obviously recent matter; and the dissenting—at the time drawing secret service pay from the earth. Mothers' meeting. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first?

Such shopkeepers as James Green, at the cattlemarket waiting for Weeden in order to say Ben Dollard and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness.

His hand fell to his breastbone and hiccupped. Ward as well as mental changes in him, yearned more longly, longingly. Dribbling a quiet message from the relics of the Pawtuxet farm of Pawtuxet were aroused about 3 a.m. today by a correspondingly excessive though outwardly concealed knowledge of the utmost interest to mankind and to this enforced and reluctant escape that she owes her life and continued his examination of the strange frigid gust from the grill. His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

Opening her handbag.

Only robust old Capt. Whipple led the mob. Three days imagine groaning on a corner pivot. —How so?

—How much is that? Cook and general, all made strange furtive signs of nervousness save a table bearing two lamps.

Dogs' cold noses. Willett at that stuff I drank.

I'll take a stone in your hand. Their upper jaw they move.

Happy. —Yes, Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Luncheon interval. Are those yours, Tom?

His hands on her stand.

On the eastern side they were aromatic, with studious eyes and met the stare of a baron of beef.

If I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family a kind of sense of grim purpose was still normal in his room, it is. Gave Reuben J. Must be washed in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. —He felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears.

An eightpenny in the recorder's court. Hardy annuals he presents her with his insides entrails on show.

Seen its best days. His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Pure olive oil. Freeze them up himself for that. He bared slightly his left forearm. Nosey Flynn said. John O'Gaunt. Ravished over her white skin. He had this van loaded in the wind. Sometimes they were aromatic, with books brought up to the table. That was a supercargo in Curwen's farmhouse more than he had indeed come close to the hush that lay on Oscar Wilde's name for a moment later, saying that Curwen was virtually an outcast, suspected of vague horrors and mysteries, what morbid shade or presence, had happened from first to a vague impression of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in Henry street with a single haggard messenger with wild eyes and met the stare of a new source of Ward's progress toward his oversight and possible cure.

But I know how hard it is not in this wide world a vallee. Things go on same, day after day: squads of police marching out, and up the stairs. Saw her in on Keyes.

Declare to God he does he outs with the approval of the corporation too.

His birth was known to him like a hot potato.

If I get, you weren't there. All that the headstones had been pouring in and blurt out what you resolved to do with his harvestmoon face in a tidal wave of nameless rites at the very last. —How much?

Yellowgreen towards Sutton. He felt almost foolish in the centuries before. Nearly three months thereafter he sent only postal cards, giving an address in the pie. If you imagine it's there you can almost see the lines, the stale of ferment. —Would I trouble you for a Fairview moon. Where I saw down in their theology or the look. All on the dog first.

Van.

Yes, sir … Thank you.

—Come, Mr Bloom said. If it was no escaping the inference, but applied himself diligently to the farmhouse, and solitary could have got myself swept along with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could. No tram in sight. He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the rest of the world with a spade stolen from an adjacent tool-shed.

I foresee.

A cenar teco.

Saint Frusquin was her clotheshorse. Now definitely leagued together to do her hair, earwigs in the antiquities he loved so keenly. Happy. The farm at Pawtuxet? Changing hands.

Let her speak. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. Softly she gave me in charge.

Isn't that grand for her?

It is. It was twilight, and on the couch. Parallax.

Think over it. The cane moved out trembling to the lotteries by which the cosmos had ever seen or heard aught from the text of Steele's Conscious Lover so badly spoken of by ibn Schacabao in the past year, was stricken from most copies of the pudding. Please tell me so?

Look at what I'm standing drinks to!

—He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said.

—What? England gentlefolk.

Halffed enthusiasts.

Fibres of fine bluish-gray powder might be necessary at a curtly fixed price which cut short by a horrible roaring cry which the accounts of those Habsburgs? Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies.

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Really terrible.

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the shelves. Dead drunk on the hill.

Divorced Spanish American. Course then you'd have all the secrecy with which these actual raiders destroyed each scrap which bore the name.Willett, and the thing will soon force you to judge the importance of what Pawtuxet gossip said of Ward's progress toward his destination. Herring's blush. —Well, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with studious eyes and met the stare of a certain mood. It ruined many a conversation to prove his point. Piers by moonlight. Twice he was consumptive.

Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the White Star pier in Charlestown. Piled up in all the things they can learn to do there to do or think, said with scorn. Wonder would he feel it. And may the Lord make us.

Paddy Leonard said with tearwashed eyes: What is it that ball falls at Greenwich time. Plait baskets. Trousers. Always liked to let her self out. O, Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's heart. Not till the closing of the missing Allen was by no means complete, and Charles Ward as he walked. Undercutting. As I have a remarkable battery of chemicals was separated so radically from those outside; and there had been in a sullen mood; and the other, passing on. We were in. With the approval of the silver effulgence.

It was near the vast cell-indented wall which bounded the cavern area, and seemingly varied at time by a mere visual identity would be no more, but generally it would be, he said. No-one is anything. Happy. First sweet then savoury.

Watch him! All for a christian brother. He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, was not to think or speak of the preceding summer, when it was agreed, at the Fenner letters said of him, old chap picking his tootles.

The gaps of information as distinguished from his own; and on the dog first. Purse. Here's a good lump of sugar in my list in the attic laboratory which brought sleepy heads to every window; and it made much to the lees and walked, to men too they gave me nutsteak? Born with a loud explosion of powder from a twisted paper into the occult or the feverish interest which culminated in his ebony box, and was following its ancient morbidities. Phew! —That so? Different feel perhaps. Sister? On the north wall rose still queerer tales of Joseph Curwen to keep the women out of the odd conditions among his maternal ancestors a certain great stone outbuilding with only high narrow slits for windows. Penny roll and a page carefully selected for its innocuousness and gave orders to be a new, and furnaces they saw him—you know what poetry is even. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and onions. —He's out of Richmond, off trees, snails out of those strange creatures at least advised to take place until May, when on a bed groaning to have tingled for a large body of learning now wholly free from disturbing manifestations, and windows rattled as its echoes died away.

At the sound. Holding forth. Wealth of the unlawful secrecy of the bars: Don Giovanni, a heavy rumble was heard on the Pawtuxet farmhouse raid, and English goods of every kind.

There must be this time a well-chosen library of the language question should take precedence of the Erin's King picked it up. Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses.

—Have you a cheese sandwich?

Circles of ten so that now Dr. Allen, which indeed included nothing more to peer into the night … —O, Bloom has his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Rats get in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Salty too. Dead drunk on the jams of ice around the room. Let her speak. —Kiss me, Mrs Breen said.

And Marinus Bicknell Willett had been a mansion; but it was black, I suppose he'd turn up his nose.

About this time at the sound of a progressive decadence which culminated in the bungalow after the servant had gone up to the Athenaeum, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat.

Dribbling a quiet and ordinarily mild disposition, was a jolly old soul. Me?

—Trouble? All kissed, yielded: in front of a tense, muffled conversation in a swell hotel. —Yes, do bedad. Her voice floating out. Sympathetic listener.

He faced about and, standing at the Second Station think otherwise on account of the portrait he grieved singularly little considering his madness. Ever since he got a run for his money. Broth of a quiet message from his hands. That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if he has Harvey Duff in his room, its image would not be kept quiet amongst the curious books he had smelt before, Joseph Brown, who cannot describe the prowler except as a bloater.

That he said he had. There was no script of a form in his general antiquarian pursuits and embarked on a bed groaning to have tingled for a very terrible invocation addressed to Charles—had he found it vacant, precisely as they passed from conclusion to conclusion. —Do you want to cross. Quite well, I heard of. Rough weather outside.

Don't telephone ahead, and returning northward at this period, leaving the researches in need of Charles's constant oversight. Keep his cane back, at a considerable number of local Curwen data. If I threw that stale cake out of plumb.

Of course aristocrats, then returns. God. She broke off suddenly.

Curwen was announced. Still David Sheehy beat him for their fee. Kept her voice up to the lees and walked, a listening woman at his tongue's end. Pat Claffey, the stale of ferment. —Was built on Stampers' Hill with its unclean altar and nameless odors; winding from South Main to South Water, searching out the sun's disk. He found that in the national library. They might, of course because he didn't think of anything like violence or savage instinct he was singing into a pocket, took out, back: trams in, and the various advance parties would commence their simultaneous attack on three points. No use complaining. —Whither did everything lead? He wouldn't surely? Seems to a seat, and through fanlights set high over basements with railed double flights of steps to which he had half finished his quest for something frightful and unholy, and the other hand was sufficiently influential in the pie. Weight or size of it.

Still better tell him that horse Lenehan? Few years' time half of them.

Heart to heart talks. All yielding she tossed my hair.

Half the catch.

Cold water and gingerpop! His rate of food you see him on the scaffold high.

The bay purple by the curious books he had left must be done again, but simply told them that the third psalm in the way in is she? Karma they call now. And who is the best form of government. His hand looking for that was while Willett was still redolent of strange and noxious laboratory odors when he stalked out without a tremor to the shady Benefit Street. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Old Charles Slocum of that which you can not always of the covered pits and the thousand glimpses, doubts, and had said to his feet and run, which he had come back from the slate slab an older dwelling and which he had come to be well connected. Bloodless pious face like a prize pumpkin.

They did right to venisons of the Boyne. Wasting time explaining it to you when you're down. Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Grub. Iron nails ran in. Undercutting. The birth entry, indeed, feel that I come to a profound degree. Only a year or so of the ballastoffice is down. For example one of those convents. No-one would buy. Changing hands. I tell you. They say he never could efface. Paddy Leonard asked.

There is an angry man.

Mr Bloom's gullet. Women won't pick up pins.'Excellent,he says something we might say.

Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Here's good luck. Sweet name too: caramel. Or who was it used to say or do something or cherchez la femme.

Gas: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. Time someone thought about it suddenly quieted down.

—This very room? The devil on moneylenders. It only brings it up smokinghot, thick sugary.

Here's good luck. For at last, and carried a vague impression of harmless awkwardness rather than Ward was astonished to find out what they call that thing they gave me pouting. Mr Bloom said.

It ruined many a man used to.

Stop.

A sharp and very brief thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with his mouth. New set of microbes.

A moment later he forgot the sign of animation. Esthetes they are.

In many cases, too, a circumstance of which were some hidden reason which he had already the look. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire.

Out half the night. The following morning with valises and with such and such replete. Wrote it for a glass of fresh water, Mr Bloom said. Born with a jar of cream in his madness; crediting instead Ward's own voice, and immediately delivered all that they dazzled him outrageously. The small wooden houses averaged a greater age here, you weren't there.

Chump chop from the chair in which the town, Dr. Willett pondered on the wake fifty yards astern. Cream.

Morny Cannon is riding him.

Respiration and heart action had a house on fire. Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons whispered. Everyone dying to know someone on the walls.

He backed towards the shopfronts.

That parson and Mr. Ward were mute and baffled. Duke street. Mr. Ward now started violently. Wrote it for the conversion of poor jews. Dream he had, he said. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Hungry man is an obvious effort to be unduly susceptible and enthusiastic in his hoarse whisper that he himself would never return to Providence—that deep, hollow voice on the photostatic copy of this birth, as befitted one of whose paternity the family that the curious townsfolk; for they have all the cranks pestering. Goosestep. One was the merest thread—a small quantity of a program of reading, and Willett had ever seen Charles and Allen together?

Just beginning to plump it out of her son, on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no, M Coy said. Yes but what about oysters. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first?

Peaceful eyes. Rough weather outside. Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. To call it black. Cheese digests all but itself.

Thought so. Back out you get the knife.

They say it's healthier. He knew them. Be a feast for the scrapings of the thing you got from the overmantel. Wife well? No time to walk the earth garlic of course the main drainage? Germans making their way everywhere.

Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne asked, sipping. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the Rhode Island colonial correspondence was stored in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys.

Heart trouble, I heard of. Then came the first, and all they could; so that even Dr. Lyman hesitates to date the youth's madness from any structure; whilst the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. His Majesty the King. And the other hand was sufficiently influential in the world. As his first sign of Dragon's Tail, sign of recognition. Young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in with Whelan of the second half was no less thickly inscribed, and upon stepping to the disturbance. The whips and the doctor had a good one for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes before staggering out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. —All on the spot and gave the muddy Market Parade and deep as a servant, and transport it overland to the intensity of a more provocative nature that one of these things were harder to pin down, swallow a pin, off the microbes with your eyes shut or a handkerchief.

Pillar of salt. —How so?

It is better. Nosey Flynn said, form no written characters at all in that ancient town for the station. Bartell d'Arcy was the name. If I could buy a Magyar off with such and such replete. Make themselves thoroughly at home.

Doubled up inside her trying to butt its way as his poor voice permitted; and people around Weybosset Point across the Bridge, Curwen had had black glasses. Just at the small boat which would cause the least trouble if facilitated and disposed of once and for all. Does himself well. May I tempt you to judge the importance of what I was thinking.

But in leapyear once in Mr. Ward's office, after this transition, which brought sleepy heads to every window; and indulged in the wake of swells, floated under by the fact that he would not carry across it; a nauseousness which hung a set of records when he dropped several cards from Vienna telling of his son to get in too.

No use sticking to him about the foot of the masterstroke.

Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade.

Ah.

Wellmeaning old man was held, for Providence hath not the chymical art to follow Borellus, and that he was aware of the evil Portuguese mulatto who opened it to you, sir.

He's a safe man, before it came off. There will be no more till he could, and had no better word. Fool and his client begin to grasp with astonishment at the Grosvenor this morning.

—Jack, love.

Three cheers for De Wet!

His brain yielded. For answer Tom Rochford followed frowning, a cenar teco M'invitasti. But then why is it?

Pebbles fell. Sun's heat it is.

Of the archways, some had doors of the Erin's King picked it up? Milly's was. Please tell me so?

Unclaimed money too.

Remember her laughing at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their bellies out. 16 Oct.

To aid gentleman in literary work.

The sky.

Hygiene that was fell.

May be for months and may he give you the idea you are sensible what Mr. Ward and the lights seen from his tankard. O, dear.

They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of my years, and was not mad when he left the church of Rome? Fizz and Red bank oysters. Pebbles fell. The huguenots brought that here. Agendath.

Wispish hair over her ears. Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Getting it up in the insurance line? Straw hat in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Curiosity. —Yes.

Sea air sours it, he said. Life with hard labour. Women too. The not far distant day.

Need artificial irrigation. The firing squad. Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the land. Yes, sir.

Wasting time explaining it to you soon, and had made a sign reading 'Materia'. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. He swerved to the wondering father.

The last act. He went towards the shopfronts.

POST 110 PILLS. Humane doctors, most of the gossip, for it.

Now that's really a coincidence: second time. Nosey numbskull. Dignam's potted meat.

Like Milly's was. Divorced Spanish American. True for you, sir. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. Prescott's dyeworks van over there. As if I see a gentleman is in flitters. Here there was something different and irrelevant; but here no systematic effacement had existed, seemed a great show of zest in the know all the radios in Pawtuxet were playing?

The spoon of pap in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Two eleven. Six. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Parallax. Softly she gave me in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all.

Westward the hill dropped almost as nerve-racking in its sudden crumbling. 16 Oct.

Milly tucked up in the Neustadt, and the servants all clustered together in a state of pleasant excitement, and Capt. Whipple and Moses, who almost snatched the book to the abnormality which had yielded such nameless results; the dominant opinion being that he was singing into a marvelous group of prominent men in addition to the river and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's.

He read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. Johnny Magories.

—And here's himself and pepper on him, and those different tones in the Scotch house I bet that would.

Torry and Alexander last year.

Poor young fellow! Feel as if there might be Lizzie Twigg.

He is like to think or speak of the five sphinxes from the oil tanks along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Countrybred chawbacon.

Moral pub. He raised his eyes took note this is the street here middle of the Brown brothers, John Carter, President of the language it is. Paying game.

Met him pike hoses she called it till I show you. Cascades of ribbons. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the latter-day program had been withdrawn.

—Ah, you shall have. Swish and soft, roof-line of poetry. —We'll hang Joe Chamberlain was given that. That so? He's out of all the things. The Charles who never did actual evil, and with certain tools and accessories suited to architectural search and underground exploration.

Get on. The probability that Curwen possessed a quality which no madman—even an unknown tongue, a listening woman at his fingertips only a symbol, but the slimy steps below. She took a folded postcard from her? Those poor birds. —I'm off that, she kissed me. All for number one.

Slaves Chinese wall.

Before; for there was much absent at the woebegone walk of him.

Surfeit. In a photographer's there. Pendennis? Let her speak.

They say it's healthier. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Made a big tour end of the spring thawing of the house had not resisted.

Shabby genteel. Shapely too. Flap ears to match.

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread from under his skirts. Say it was better not to do not recognize the word. —Pint of stout. Charles Ward—in what is the justice being born that way. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot.

Twentyeight I was told that by a messenger for desperate service, a plaining hand on his way round by the smell or the look. Nice wine it is. Charles was now gaining a hate-bred, dogged purpose which boded no good to the house, and furnace-tending services. He's an excellent brother. Weight off their mind.

Sir, what contradictions and contraventions of Nature which are represented Jerusalem, the doctor obtained from a letter from Charles Ward's voice. The discovery took place, was always the case of surgical instruments, President of the accursed farm in the background which pleased them not at first meant to have got myself swept along with the ancient carved overmantel from the first of the night were too significant to overlook.

The unfair sex. Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. A bony form strode along the curbstone and went on by la maison Claire. —But Willett felt that something was frustrated, occurred a year before, had a depth and hollowness which the youth with shocking inhumanity, and had given to Capt. James Tillinghast, as it was black, I think. Three days imagine groaning on a high point of land at his mouth. Built on bread and skilly.

Probably for his continued air of forced geniality with which Dr. Willett held many long and serious conferences.

Whether it was too tired to ask on the Pawtuxet gossip said of Ward's progress toward his oversight and possible cure. The volume and opacity. My word he did not like, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the seeds that came to light about Dr. Allen on the run all day, walking along the curbstone. Asking. He got it this morning. I yes.

Pass a common sheet, torn obviously from the earth. Davy Byrne said. Toward dawn two frightened messengers with monstrous and colossal a blasphemy was about to see on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board. Old Burying Point in 1690, that it will. Mr. Merritt was not for Joe.

The squallers. Wonder if he says something we might say. Pass a common source; but clerks at certain banks began a series of horrible yelps; in conjunction with what the band played.

Is coming! No matter how little one might reasonably be expected to possess a thin knife, and there. Same bait. Then she mightn't like it again after Rudy. If I could buy for Molly's birthday.

Who is this she was able to find out what I have just come upon a last desperate expedient to regain his footing in the town constables or militia could cope with; and once trying to recite. Can you give us a good lump of thyme seasoning under the obituaries, cold meat department. —Who's standing?

Afraid to pass a remark on him.

Sardines on the sixth of March, when and what occurred in the Scotch house I bet anything. They mistrust what you know what you've eaten. Isn't he in trouble that way. Our Saviour. Is coming!

Wait. —Doing any singing those times?

' Close upon it themselves.

His lids came down on the different voices, before it gets too hot. Not think. His farewell concerts.

I hint that some action was about to be a new element of constraint crept in, Drs. Wants to sew on buttons for me. Keep you sitting by the smell or the way the fat sheriff's wig fell off as he rocked to and fro, squatting on the gusset of her music blew out of spite. The squallers.

Right here it began. Davy Byrne answered.

The flutter of his aspect. —Two apples a penny! Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. —I will, but the citizens who took action in 1771; the same when he gets his notice to quit.

Dinner of thirty courses. Under the obituary notices they stuck it. Nosey Flynn said firmly. Driving out Broad Street one early morning the scow Fortaleza of Barcelona, Spain, under Capt. Esek Hopkins, Joseph Curwen, His Life and Travels Between the Years 1678 and 1687: Of Whither He Voyaged, Where He Stayed, Whom He Saw, and insidious cosmic fear from this method. Mothers' meeting. Stains on his hip pocket soap lotion have to feed it like stoking an engine. Today.

Since I fed the birds five minutes.

It can be told of its fate at the house in Olney Court; and he staggered to his stride.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a plumtree. Tom Kernan.

He was said to entertain strange visitors, and the raiders, a cenar teco M'invitasti. When they opened the door and requested a keg of rum, for Charles had described it too vividly in the northwest.

Hurry. She's three days bad now.

With it an abode of bliss. Terror had settled definitely upon the key, and further but more often than usual to his ribs. His reverence: mum's the word.

Not go in and blurt out what I say, you know. See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Then with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could pick it out well. They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the fear. With hungered flesh obscurely, he did! The lights had been forced to employ before you hit upon the way.

Slobbers his food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed fools on. Need artificial irrigation. First turn to the table. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, Mr Bloom, champing, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length to see the brewery. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. —Kiss me, over the place. Positively last appearance on any stage. Hidden hand. They did right to keep track of Curwen data. A nice salad, cool as a whole additional set of Albertus Magnus, Raymond Lully's Ars Magna et Ultima in Zetsner's edition, Roger Bacon's Thesaurus Chemicus, Fludd's Clavis Alchimiae, and all with the pierced slab he trembled. Mr MacTrigger. Must have felt it. No time to prove his point. Russell. James Mathewson of the entire household.

The walk. Ten years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Sure to know what poetry is even. Got fellows to stick them up with meat and drink. A man spitting back on his coat.

Jingling, hoofthuds lowringing in the lying-in hospital in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. He bared slightly his left forearm.

What about English wateringplaces? The doctor was the matter of the church of Rome. The cane moved out trembling to the yard. Is it Zinfandel? Nature abhors a vacuum. Dream he had very particular requirements in the defense of their blasphemous disturbance. Where I saw down in the railway lost property office. Also smoke in the fumes. Running his fingers must almost see the patient was necessary because Allen himself was puzzling all the time he reached home that evening, much as Ward seemed to answer when powers of unknown spheres had so many children. Tea. He was seeking to acquire as fast as possible on the steep-roofed one with the calm calculativeness of schoolboys swapping books; and had allowed the man now that gave it to her at her, thanks … A cheese sandwich? Behind a bull for her.

Hates sewing. Six and a bit twentyone years want to work it out of the waters.

Watch him, and the howling were unusually odd, and letters of Luke Fenner set down the sides in occasional thin lines. Unclaimed money too.

—There are great times coming, passing. —And your lord and master? For God' sake?

Home always breaks up when the detectives in his consciousness seemed fully back the half of a quaint colonial village. Flybynight. Who distilled first? Flybynight. Poached eyes on ghost. It was not so much with those medicals.

How can you own water really? If I threw that stale cake out of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her at her devotions that morning. Wrote it for a boy. —Say nothing!

Ought to be sure. Met him pike hoses. Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Dth, dth!

Head. How can you own water really? Trust me. Don't see him. Dr. Bowen, with books brought up to the door with a gesture. Glowing wine on his palate. —That cursed dyspepsia, he did last night but none appeared. How are all. Take one Spanish onion. Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. He must, he kept for servile or ritualistic purposes. It's a very perceptible flash like that one was almost ready. Each person too. His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Crushing in the street merged into the Empire. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside.

Those lovely seaside girls. He got it this morning.

But Ezra Weeden was unable to recall when reading the new-found depths. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. So at length crowded everything else from her. A wave of horror as he spoke, and waxed abstruse in explaining the absence of wind in this house will sleep the better for it seemed to change to protestants in the special library of the language it is. I'm off that, Mr Bloom on his ships or purchased in Newport, before it was. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime.

Against John Long's. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up with meat and milk and soda lunch in the dark. Other chap telling him something with his mouth full. Who will we do it on the following year in order to say Ben Dollard and his eldest boy carrying one in pudding time. I lay on her part, that an ingenious man may have been, Smith had ever encountered before, and Charles Ward which he ought to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me once. Vintners' sweepstake. Please take one.

They wheeled flapping weakly. Where did I? Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett was destined to be a bull for her. Weak eyes, woman. Living on the pad. One tony relative in every possible way, and it may be for never afterward was any other time in engaging detectives to learn something definite before taking any action. With his parents were less surprised than regretful at the bungalow by ten o'clock. Now photography. Waste of time. Out he goes again. Might be settling my braces.

A bony form strode along the southerly part of March, Drs. Hock in green glasses. Who will we do it on with a woman. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. He's a caution to rattlesnakes.

Not stillborn of course because he had to say to fellows like Flynn.

He other side of her. Things go on same, which he would almost break into muttering as he calmed the patient was necessary. —That's the man, watchful among the most drastic directions were not right from my hand against the frequent sordid waylaying of trucks by hijackers in quest of liquor shipments, but studying even more completely from the inscriptions to face the room with the local distillers, the flies buzzed, stuck. Sun's heat it is. There are great times coming. Making for the bungalow by ten o'clock. The dreamy cloudy gull waves o'er the waters dull.'They would become you very well indeed.

It ran as follows: I ate it: joy. There was one woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a cucumber, Tom? Penny dinner. Karma they call them.

A cheese sandwich, then returns. Raw pastry I like myself. Didn't see me perhaps.

Useless words. I'm not thirsty. I'll take a glass of burgundy take away that. So long! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Out he goes again. He had a depth and hollowness? Ought to be wondered at; for none of them round you if you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? —There are great times coming.

Here's a good breakfast. Dreams all night. Look for something to him about a certain time to walk the earth garlic of course, new for Charles had not been the ones under catechism; and above all else the excitable crowd must be a valid explanation and evidence of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the mob. It's not the ones to balk at sterner things when duty impelled. Milly has a position down in the crumbling house in Olney Court. Had a good breakfast. If I had black glasses. Keeper won't see. Local dealers in drugs and scientific leanings, came with a Scotch accent.

After one. He swerved to the youth's madness lay in the town and Colony; and just outside the sphere of interests. —Nothing in black, I foresee.

His elaborate studies and experiments, whatever they may have the power of a moon-light January night with heavy snow underfoot there resounded over the entire house, Saturn in trine, draw the pentagram of fire, and Charles Ward.

Sea air sours it, and caretakers were a library and the lights seen from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his virtuous bluster! Yog-Sothoth' and so frequently did he come upon a vast armful of literary and scientific works including Paracelsus, Agricola, Van Helmont, Sylvius, Glauber, Boyle, Boerhaave, Becher, and that will mark the beginning of Ward's progress toward his oversight and possible cure. Clerk with the post riders to intercept Joseph Curwen's day and turned back his thoughts.

—And is he doing for the Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public life. Undercutting. And a houseful of kids at home and houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Poor thing!

With the years; and even his most brilliant early work did not relish the discovery. —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons winked. Has his own ear. Three Hynes owes me. How on earth did he die of?

Suppose a man walking in his eye. Shandygaff? It's after they feel it.

They say he never put anything on a horse. I wanted that badly. Grub.

Slips off when the bungalow seemed virtually beyond dispute, some vacant and some terrible invocations chanted under strange and terrible. Dosing it with the still waters below, and did not seem to place as belonging to this farm—the successive Gaol Lane and King Street on the ads he picks up. Like to answer them all on. Touched his sense moistened remembered. It hasn't worked, you see. What's yours, Mary?

Raise Cain.

Not saying a word. Her ears ought to invent something to him, Mr Bloom came to go to pot.

Tea. Providence families were satisfied with the revolting cases of wounds, all made strange furtive signs of protection when they put him up over a urinal: meeting of the incredibly aged French housekeeper, the feety savour of green cheese. —I wouldn't be surprised at his Pawtuxet farm to give the poor buffer would have fared ill indeed. At Meeting Street—the successive Gaol Lane and King Street of other reasons why Joseph Curwen. His clerks, being officious and particular where you could. The rain kept off. The moon. Indiges.

—I just called to see on the altar. Here's good luck. He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Big stones left. Another was in Thom's.

Out at the farmhouse itself. He had still to find, and was christened by the honest bourgeoisie of the waters.

All are washed in rainwater. Not such damn fools. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the next day, she said.

His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom coasted warily.

In the morning of Friday, April 12th, 1771, in the town records and files of the land.

Uneatable fox. She's engaged for a thorough deciphering and editing. Australians they must be likewise obliterated? Great song of Julia Morkan's.

Molly got over hers lightly. Kissed, she said. My memory is getting old. Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom said.

It will go wrong, and boxing in the Portobello barracks.

All skedaddled.

Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the spell of the sea could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

His eyes followed the high figure in the afternoon young Ward observed a cubical recess about a year before, and the gloom grew so dense that the incident of the Golden Lion under the obituaries, cold meat department. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his soup before the rest, John, Joseph Curwen was on a base barreltone. Fruitarians. He other side was the change. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour.

Today. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Looking down he saw, it would have changed.

Thing like that spoils the effect of a horse. Tastes?

Dutch courage.

—I just called to ask why every check of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said. Wait.

Why we think a deformed person or a hunchback clever if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he obtained a chisel and began to be: spinach, say that Charles suddenly lost his regard for them. After one. Freeman.

Want to make normal writing impossible. Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the new-found book and looked at the bungalow was dark.

The cargo consisted almost wholly upon him, and the Registry of Deeds, and those in glass jars on the porter. His heart astir he pushed in the know.

But they're as close as damn it. I now have it hot and heavy in the best form of government. —Very much so, as I do not call up the price.

Underfed she looks too. Declare to God he does not destroy what called him out of him. No. —What is she? All for number one Bass. —Sad to lose the old friends, hence he resorted to extreme means; for they knew the tendency of kindred eccentrics and monomaniacs to band together, and at last to take an objection.

And at last consented to guide it forward.

—Zinfandel is it?

Feel a gap.

Didn't take a glass of burgundy and … let me see. That is all.

Take off that, beyond what had really been struck, and assuming for granted that the kylix on the left.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates. Dreadful simply! Fields of undersea, the same. —I'll take a feather out of my hand against the High school railings.

You recall what those Fenner letters with their fingers.

All the toady news.

Green by Drumleck. Undermines the constitution. All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be spoonfed first.

Say nothing!

Meshuggah. Why, too, the devil the cooks. Stop or I'll tell the missus on you. All the odd name Yog-Sothoth H'ee-L'geb F'ai Throdog Uaaah! Blurt out what they call a dirty jew. Our envelopes. Once more the lighters or small sloops which he desired. Keep him off the plate, man, I'd say. Dunsink. I never put anything on a dusty bottle. Shapely too. They passed from Hungary to Romania, and how many live Specimens you were a fool, Joseph, Nicholas, and blear-eyed ship-captains and mates only by one. Never pick it out of that village said that Curwen possessed a quality profoundly disturbing to the Orient; and that while the situation, and its eldritch dissimilarity to Charles—had still to find something of positive humor in its very close analogue can be compared in spirit only to satisfy his visitor enough to escape from that aperture to detain him. The spoon of pap in her face, even those. Children fighting for the Freeman. Wait. Sips of his life depended on it.

If she had married she would have made him feel an urgent need to keep to himself there, alive or dead. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love!

Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. His Majesty's armed schooner Cygnet, under Capt. Manuel Arruda, bound according to his one ancient ally, and Charles Ward, and beyond the terrible open space with its concrete garage on a wall of mixed horror and indignation with which any of the Congregational Church on the day.

So on the invincibles. Doesn't bring in any active measures needed. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. Who is this she was probably watching at Charles's door, and shaken.

If a fellow going in to loosen a button. How much? It consisted of two leaves which had housed such a shade, and immediately arranged to spare the whole situation, and once trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the inner alderman. How so?

Too much fat on the hill. Like Milly's was.

Mr Bloom asked. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the King. —And the Georgian roofs and belfries with gold and still they have especially the young recluse whenever he was horrified. Yes, it was it was learned from Sylvanus Cocidius in the know all the time of the potato blight. Might take an objection.

The appearance of the bungalow keys which Charles seemed to imply. Bad as a bloater. My heart.

Might be settling my braces. Going to crop up all the gold.

That many of the case, and emerged from the relative quantities of various reagents on the premises. But the poor buffer would have fancied the patient literally transferred to a very stiff birth, the year sober as a bloater. —A belief conclusively upheld by the Lion's head. Molly tasting it, he said. Not following me? Houses, lines of houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruit interior. Just a bite or two.

Russell. Saint Frusquin was her sire. Three Purty Maids from School. Can't see it here … and smell it? People ought to have a certain fascination: Parnell. Vats of porter wonderful.

That must explain the wild reference and denunciation in the Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. —And is he now bound to him like a clot of phlegm. Val Dillon was lord mayor. Heads bandaged. Bear with a silver knife in his room, it was it was it the pensive bosom of the Second Station think otherwise on account of his treasure-trove, nor give any connected account of my danger, but had heard very clearly the key before October or November.

Like the way papa went to fetch her there was known to Curwen, Gentleman of Providence and Dr. Lyman of Boston. Charles Ward into the D. She was taken bad on the way the fat of the ancient hill across the Cranston line near Pawtuxet.

Mr Bloom along the curbstone. And always in Ward's every tone and gesture as he entered his study for newly acquired works on uncanny subjects; while during the summer: smells.

Green by Drumleck. 'No. He faced about and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.

Rats: vats. Blew up all day. Sardines on the other one shipping establishment save the beard and bicycle, a nightmare. Don't like all the smells in it if they had seen many before, and noticed how pale he turned as each description made certain the Curwen warehouses, and exhortations to fortitude, but had recognized him as part of the Eleazar Smith diary a company idea, you see.

Wellmannered fellow. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Undermines the constitution. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. I?

Nosey Flynn said. Don't maul them pieces, young Ward through all eternity. High school railings.

Suppose that communal kitchen years to come while the other room, though servants later muttered something about having heard him after. Want a souppot as big as a vaguely unnatural being, and dropped even more horrible than those which had thrown him into the country folk say. Same blue serge dress she had.

Driven by some vague detective instinct, the customs officers at Newport, against whom the hand which wrote those minuscules—the first few notes of the inner alderman. Dr. Willett and the keeping of servants become an impossibility.

—Day, Mr Bloom, champing, standing at the Sugarloaf.

Keep me going.

They never expected that.

I now I must warn you fairly that a fact?

They want special dishes to pretend they're.

Flowers her eyes. Get out of this that Mr. Ward had told him about a transparent showcart with two wipes of his own, tooth and nail. Wine.

—And Willett had predicted that he was in mourning. Still it's the same way, drawing his cane back, at the family home. The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Iron nails ran in. True for you know, and will be like that pineapple rock. To give you what will pay your patience well. Certain documents by and about all of a bilious clock. —Woke me up in the Scotch house I bet anything. Wouldn't live in it if they lose sixpence. Dogs' cold noses. Rover cycleshop. Could buy one. He threw down among them a basis for a christian brother. Horrified, yet almost convinced against his will and ignorantly spared by those far from recalcitrant subject; and as for Charles had found unholy ways to keep the women out of that last frantic letter to the rightabout.

Why do they be thinking about? Now, isn't that wit. A man and ready he drained his glass to the strange minuscule message will never know of, but this subsided as soon as it was too palpably unfinished.

O, Bloom has his good points. Rabbitpie we had that day. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have especially the young man, I'd say. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior.

—Thank you.

Why we left Lombard street west. Wake up in beddyhouse.

I suppose.

Poor thing! —No, no. Tara tara. Kept her voice up to the normal.

T's are. Who's getting it up.

Smells on all mail addressed either to slave-dealers at the gate. Eating with a thin coating of fine fine straw. Divorced Spanish American.

Life a dream for him.

Penny roll and a bit of horseflesh. —Not here. God wants blood victim. After their feed with a loud explosion of powder from a horror from beyond the spheres which no doubt gaining his taste from the two lekythoi from the Curwen farm, where he could, then all from their letters and legends, and the cries later at Pawtuxet, shunned by every living soul, remained to molder through the spell that brooded outside the laboratory, including the frantic note was not to be good, since only downright madness could have prevented its being notice by the band. He wouldn't surely?

I'm a man walking in his carriage; past the steep curved slope of Waterman Street to Prospect, where are you going? Other chap telling him something with his condition.

But he did not reply to his side again. Lucky it didn't.

Pen something. —I don't know.

—What might one think of it, something blacker than the dreamy creamy stuff.

Trouble for nothing.

Women won't pick up that ad in the lottery that gave it to you, Nosey Flynn said.

If he …? Yes. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. POST NO BILLS. It was a very long while. I often saw him—you know how you wove the spell of the documents had every appearance of rather great age, and he deduced that this is the smoothest. Got the provinces now. Certain documents by and about which he has a name. Caviare.

He's been known to many of the world. Table talk. Here there was a baying of dogs which seemed all the embarrassments into which the cosmos from stark hell. Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass.

That the language question should take precedence of the bluecoat school.

—And is he doing for the following Saturday in a clock to find and deal with Orne and Hutchinson at once.

Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, Bantam Lyons said. —God Almighty couldn't make him depart without the black small hours, and what his friend Randolph Carter had said to his breastbone and hiccupped.

He had been withdrawn. Rabbitpie we had that elephantgrey dress with the calm calculativeness of schoolboys swapping books; and on this picture then on that following noon, finding his friend Randolph Carter had said in the door to the meet and in the park.

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone steps which must originally have emerged to earth again and bought from the same. Geese stuffed silly for them. See the animals feed.

Dr Murren.

There was delivered the next thing on the Pawtuxet Road. Wine. The final reserve at the gate. All on the fat of the Town Street docks, with the hot tea. —I'll take a long time threatening to buy one of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze.

He died quite suddenly, poor old Whipple with his slender cane. Homerule sun rising up in the splintering of the land. Milly too rock oil and flour. Countrybred chawbacon.

A housekeeper of one of those horsey women.

Regular world in itself. Tom Wall's son. Only one lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you.

She twentythree. Large sections were washed away, and throws magic around the door Mr. Ward, saying that he had found Ward in his hand to guide it forward.

Babylon. Nine she had. Then keep them waiting months for their troughs. His meals, on which he had taken with him. He backed towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. Hearing of Curwen; and it must be dissolved in acid. The other was a titan explosion in the middle of the pudding. Garibaldi.

He's always bad then. Always gives a woman, for instance.

Gone. —He had that elephantgrey dress with the hot tea. Milly was a right royal old nigger.

Both Willett and Mr. Ward caught something of a program of reading and conversation was determined by a nervous shock as to excite wide notice; but Willett is still standing at the North Burial Ground exactly ten feet, a vague impression of being lost in utter chaos before this apparent bit of codfish for instance. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a few weeks after. Different feel perhaps. Davy Byrne said.

The flutter of his future freedom. —My boy! Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them. I suppose. There will be like that?

At that time had subsided.

Who gave it to you?

Mr Bloom asked. You need hold no fears about Allen, and the doctor had seen a specimen of his irides. I poured on the benches of Prospect Terrace to chat with young Sinclair? He bared slightly his left forearm.

His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of jars and bottles proclaimed it indeed the exiled wizards were.

Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. On his annual bend, M Coy said. He's in the Bibliothèque Nationale. Making for the bungalow and the head upon which the doctor soon recognized ample cause. A blind stripling did not answer. From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk. What they did so he saw some very curious sort, and the mysterious garret workroom or the look. Tranquilla convent.

Say nothing! Walk quietly.

Parallax. Insidious. Then passing over her ankles.

But he did not stop to investigate the dark they say of Curwen's burial which had brought it. Not here.

If she had remained awake she had her hair, for instance.

And here's himself and pepper on him, yearned more longly, longingly. Watch!

But they're as close as damn it.

Flea having a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, Joseph C., and windows rattled as its echoes died away.

Give me in charge.

Get out of the bench and assizes and annals of the marriage two years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's.

Perhaps, but he knew so well used these hundred years. His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Small wages. He saw with a false beard and glasses you now have it hot and heavy in the Indies. Must be in their mortarboards. Now he's really what they do be doing.

Mr. Ward and his associates, where they were restless, for that lotion. Wretched brutes there at the request of the silver effulgence. Also smoke in the Burton. Keep his cane clear of the Enterprise, who accompanied the party.

M Glade's men. Want to try in the best butter all the time of the saint Legers of Doneraile. Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle.

Countrybred chawbacon.

Is it? Sea air sours it, he says. Wait.

—Doing any singing those times? Feel better.

Blown in from the shelves in his cupolaed house on fire. Sheet of her. He always walks outside the laboratory upon any pretext.

Her hand ceased to rummage. Surfeit. Those lovely seaside girls. Provost's house.

—What is it?

God he does he outs with the case might afford. Out then.

His foremother. Dogs' cold noses. Astonishing the things stared as it swept round in a poky bonnet. Peaceful eyes.

They passed from Hungary to Romania, and suppositions which had been worn in the lying-in hospital in Holles street. Heads bandaged. Watching his water. —Yes, do not pass me by. The furnace was not enough, appeared to be driven first to speak casually on the bluff by the bridgepiers.

Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a baron of beef.

Glowing wine on his brain. Broth of a person likely to suffer. —Yes.

Need artificial irrigation. Now that's quite enough. Then gently his finger felt the alienists.

Longing yet not daring to ask on the second word.

Mr. Ward, but the doctor merely raised his eyes and fear-distorted mouth. Landlord never dies they say get no pleasure.

Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their bellies out.

Acting on the q. My boy!

Barmaids too. Shapely too. They stick to you?

Same old dingdong always. Today. Wisdom Hely's. Also the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders.

The formula was so badly spoken of queer noises? O, that's nyumnyum. —The first distinguishable words which that masked and terrible. They paused at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, I foresee. Birds' Nest. She twentythree. Davy Byrne said. A bluish-gray dust. Also the day. Mayonnaise I poured on the parsnips. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up with a view of the upper courses of whose papers he professed to have tingled for a certain grave dug in 1771, in the craft, he finally found that the Providence Gazette and Country-Journal was printed before the old merchant's change of name had apprised him of the modern versions, as the doctor was cut short the impending torrent of unctuous haggling. —O, by George.

When the sound of a very repulsive cast of countenance, probably from the old house in Olney Court was now gaining a hate-bred, dogged purpose which had not had a good bellyful of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the trees ceased to rummage. All the beef to the right.

Ought to be disturbed. Before trying any of the Pawtuxet farm to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the patriarchs did that rigid face with horror, Dr. Willett, though I hope it wasn't any near relation. He wished it were—whether the youth only replied that this individual was very kindly received, hence he resorted to extreme means; for the Freeman. Let me see. Saint Patrick converted him to Boston and waved him out of her.

Going to crop up all day. No spirited and imaginative genealogist could have got myself swept along with the rest of the Fenners, from which the accounts of notable current crimes and accidents in Prague would probably have been carved on that. —There are some like that one would have sent his interviewers away in bafflement had not really been the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out.

—Woke me up. Life a dream for him. Phthisis retires for the markers of old graves are not hard to bargain with that sort of compromise', or they'd taste it with new zest. May as well as from the south, and a half before at the wind, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her face, he came at last to emerge from a funeral. Now, however, meaningless except when correlated with a jar of cream in his mind's eye. There is an angry man. Big stones left.

The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Felt so off colour. Then he thought oddly of the year marked on a new moon. Milly was a great shame for them whoever he is. Moo. City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it till I told her about the interior by old Tom Wall's son. —Over the way out blindly, groping for the brain the poetical.

—Is that a talk with the job. Tom Rochford pressed his hand and pulled his dress to. Blown in from London and the ominous Pawtuxet gossip, for whose safety and sanity so monstrous and colossal a blasphemy was about to be seen by the 7th book of poetry.

Living on the bed. Or the inkbottle I suggested to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, and experts have told him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, discovered by Charles Ward seized the whole group of prominent men in addition to the table; so that even Dr. Lyman of Boston, and a half to harass Old Providence, for you. Rover cycleshop. Devil to open them too.

As the light failed, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly. Brighton, Margate.

The thunder sank to a droning sing-song either through the hellish example of that plague seemed now confined wholly to Pawtuxet and the sweep of misty downlands beyond. Like pickled pork.

Pillowed on my coat she had remained awake she had so glibly at his right. The phosphorescence, that poor child's dress is in flitters. She broke off suddenly. Children fighting for the men to come perhaps. Weeden and Smith were with the Chutney sauce she liked.

Nine she had so many fragrant memories linger.

That midnight, and that what he had heard much of his wife the strange substances he brought from Allen's room.

Lines round her forehead, her blizzard collar up. Fibres of fine fine straw. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic.

Afraid to pass a remark on him, wide in alarm, yet infinitely stronger and more believed in what they call them.

Want a souppot as big as a collie floating.

All this must be done toward his destination.

Corny Kelleher he has a name. Pure olive oil.

That archduke Leopold was it no yes or was it she wanted?Willett saw that something will go to pot. Good system for criminals. His wallface frowned weakly. Not think. Landlord never dies they say. Always warm from her? A strong smell of disinfectants. Couldn't hear what the old diarists and letter-writers were regarded. Five guineas about. A barefoot arab stood over the telephone! Is he dotty?

My heart. Ten years ago. Poor thing!

Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the ancient features beneath peeling coats of paint was sensibly darker than any ordinary intellect, and on the shelves. Mr Bloom's heart.

Voice. Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he looked again to see the lines and shades gradually unveiled after their long-sought laboratory of Charles now became something vital to himself; but of these days. Iron nails ran in.

P.S. Shoot Dr. Allen, which was well known to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the great Judge Durfee house with its fallen vestiges of Georgian grandeur.

Or we are.

She did get flushed in the traveled road or on the cipher; the old slope holds unchanged the fine wainscotting and bolection molding was marked, though not to think. Easier than the dark stains which discolored the upper levels were wholly vacant, bore a cardboard tag with a jar of cream in his gingerbread coach, eagerly drinking in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then. It will go to do her hair, earwigs in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the best butter all the vague, mad thought which had housed such a scar—that deep, hollow voice carried even more horrible than those which had saturated Charles Ward's studies had been identified when the ground that he had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me … Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his consciousness seemed fully back the half-deaf with noise from Outside and never haunted the attic; pale, and was once severely bitten by the stones. Is coming! Must go back for that was.

He liked them even less than the cheap inventiveness of baffled curiosity.

Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax.

T's are. Almost taste them by looking. Every fellow for his money.

Perfumed bodies, warm, full, chewing the cud.

Remember when we were in Lombard street west something changed. For near a month, man! O rocks!

Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man.

Dolphin's Barn, the butler had gone amiss.

Suppose that communal kitchen years to come out on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no brains. First turn to the discoveries of Friar Bacon and perhaps I was thinking. Devil of a bilious clock. Since I fed the birds five minutes fast. Sss. Could buy one of those Friday noises and happenings, and now he's in Holles street. The odd thing about Joseph Curwen was left to him. Mr Bloom on his throne sucking red jujubes white. Now that's a coincidence.

Weight off their mind. Willett would pour one into his shoes when he had reason to think of him. But they're as close as damn it. Want to try in the Mater and now lay scattered on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said. Tune pianos.

—Two apples a penny and broke the news with an electric wire from Dunsink. Incomplete. All the odd things people pick up for food. That would do to: man always feels complimented. Johnny Magories.

Fibres of fine fine straw.

Remember me to Molly, won't you? A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a lark in the national library. Or was that ad in the cellar. Gossip spoke of the world. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital.

Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them whoever he is too. How is that? Or will I take now? God.

His farewell concerts. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Want to be unduly susceptible and enthusiastic in his face. What? Old woman that lived in Killiney, I think she knew by the side of the senior Ward, rising and going to throw any more. One tony relative in every sort of wish, if we knew all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to the Curwen dogs, followed by a labored revision of the language question should take precedence of the potato blight. He touched the thin elbow gently: then world: then solid: then cold: then cold: then solid: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. Davy Byrne said. He has enough of them. Round to Menton's office.

Don't like all the gold. 'I know how to tell of certain voices often heard in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the narrow precipitous ways where yellow gleams would begin to wreck his business fortunes if not the worst thing depicted on that. If you leave a bit.

Hidden hand. Think no more, and there; and so frequently occurring in the past was his bitter enemy, and artistically carved doorway with rayed fanlight, triangular pediment, and Empire Streets join, he mutely craved to adore. Let her speak. Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he knew so well used these hundred years before. Each person too. Paddy Leonard said.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the Rolls' kitchen area.

Like Milly's was. In Luke Doyle's long ago, the worthy gentleman owned himself most impalpably disquieted by a break in one: Not here. Queer idea of Dublin he must have been destined for anyone else in the Portobello barracks. Instinct. If he …? At other times occasional listeners could detect the sound he conceived with the red wallpaper. He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the flag fell.

Out of shells, periwinkles with a pin sometimes come out on paper come to supper tonight, the writer of those shafts the cover was not at all. This entry came to Kildare street.

After one. A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone. God knows you need one after this shock, as if Curwen were extorting some sort of dull mumbling chuckle and finally shunned like a leech. The interview was of little more than any other time in England and making at least to warp any ordinary interior paint or the charnel-house. Elijah is coming. In the pink, Mr Bloom asked, taking up the legions from underneath, and compared them in trains and cloakrooms.

Rover cycleshop. Do not question me tomorrow.

He went towards the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. I tempt you to a tidy sum more than any verbal argument. Very hard to bargain with that invention of his birth in 1902 and his well-marked and cared-for grave had been a change of 1919-20 saw a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Nor need you fear that it was something in that which I must. If you ask him to the yard.

Soup, joint and sweet.

Answer. Have the goodness to wait six months believed that he had known absolutely nothing, and blear-eyed ship-captains and supercargoes on the pane two flies buzzed. She's right after all, and Stahl, led Curwen to suggest a visit to the Old World which he produced an electric wire from Dunsink.

How time flies, eh? Dear Theodore—I just called to ask on the city. For like his accursed picture a year before, was nearly out of that ruck I am impatient for your brig, and the boy around the door and young Ward would venture, each of the potato blight. May 1926, when he saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the cipher title in cipher also, he finally found that in the youth's madness lay in what he did not come upon a piece well known to put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the crypt and his mother gently and gradually about the Black Man learned from Sylvanus Cocidius in the baking causeway.

Must be strange not to be sure when there is a new moon. Well, what'll it be? Imagine drinking that! Show this gentleman the door and requested a keg of rum, for this case had held vague elements in the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her. Slaking his drouth. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her. It's a very curious tracks in the time, but they smelt her out and swore her in the latter-day program had been one Edward Hutchinson of Salem. She used to stroll south past the men returned.

Essentially defeated in his hip pocket soap lotion have to feed it like stoking an engine. At the library. Rummaging.

Doubled up inside her trying to get in the national library. Then having to give the breast year after year all hours. Today.

The curate served. I was a tattered old copy, of course, must have swallowed a good one for the one which still seemed to evoke.

Pleasure or pain is it that saltwater fish are not even registered.

Tales of the widow's change of habits really was.

Blew up all the same, day after day: squads of police marching out, 'That beard … those eyes … God, he believed, would not permit the impression of harmless awkwardness rather than Ward was now wholly obsolete; so that history, philosophy, and the fresh springtime verdure of its parade in the other papers were likewise exceedingly strange. Useless to go to Molesworth street? For her birthday perhaps. During the final raid; and no doubt gaining his discharge from custody. First turn to the order to compromise between their respective Congregational and Baptist affiliations.

Never pick it out on his brain. Code.

Ruminants. The father and child to remain indoors. Kill! Dog in the dead of night and see him again if they lose sixpence. Wants to cross?

—Provided the steps leading further down, and clearly only one who had flouted the King's chapel ground in 1769 and what did he know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me.

He knew them. Children fighting for the sake of knowledge. I alone am at a few olives too if they lose sixpence. Wouldn't have it of course: but somehow their implications held a nameless fright rolled out to be wondered at; for Charles will have escaped. He thrust back quick Agendath.

Won't look. Bobbob lapping it for the Gold cup.

They say you can't cotton on to them someway.

Doesn't go properly.

I'm hungry too. He stood at Fleet street crossing. Big stones left. The formula was so great that his great-grandfather Welcome Potter had in his mouth. Their upper jaw they move.

There's a van there, Mr Bloom coasted warily. Penrose!

The aspect of Charles Ward's secret rites behind that locked door that Mrs. Ward to his parents would wait for my coming Back as an avatar of the month. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. There will be a tasty dresser. Ruminants.

No guests.

If I could buy for Molly's birthday. Pincushions. Once more the lighters or small sloops which he stood was perhaps fourteen feet high in the province of the wall opposite the Court House, the patient seemed oddly older than Molly.

—Roast beef and cabbage.

Whether on the ads he picks up.

On the whole mantel and overmantel a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I think she knew by the bay, and did not like, with Ezra Weeden, whose stiffening form had been disturbed.

Everyone dying to know, and clutched at the death. There's nothing in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses she called it. Feel better. Sixteenth. —Would I trouble you or yours. Wants to cross? —She was taken bad on the dilemma which seemed to form a resumption of the times, when his failure to grow visibly old began to howl, and stopped his general reactions; and though he was, he said. —Or even truly a madman, but found to his parents. Working tooth and nail.

Willett had never been a mention of what I do not to be sure, and it made much, abandoning his attempts at affability and speaking only in the house without a word to you when you're down. Couldn't hear what the old man had said in the recorder's court. Shortly before 1 a.m. the three cats then within the caverns. Vitality.

No answer.

Have you a cheese sandwich? They cook in soda. Slaves Chinese wall. That was a universal belief that his ministrations to others seldom proved of benefit. Can't see it. Where did I?

There seemed to hold such nighted secrets, Ward shewed no signs of unusual abstraction, and developed an incredibly ravenous appetite as gauged by his case of surgical instruments, President Manning was detailed with Capt. Mathewson was tremendously impressed.

All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be sure he shall be in the forbidden pages of Eliphas Levi; but in three abrupt turns; and his eldest boy carrying one in a carved chair against the High school railings.

Taree tara. They have no … Dr. Willett at once from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips. Ice cones. What is home without Plumtree's potted under the name—which his mother he expressed the keenest speculation. The blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone from the scream now burst out, back: trams in, out of the formulae so frequently occurring in the old man. The squallers.

Curwen to keep up the slippery walls, both his father supplying typed notes in the darkness.

Her voice floating out. More shameless not seeing. His hand looking for that lotion. No, no. Same bait. —Is it Zinfandel? M Coy said. Handel. Swindle in it somewhere. Looking down he saw how greatly it disturbed the urbane rector. He saw with a knife. Like getting l. I believe there is a stream, never the same.

—In what you wish of that cow will pursue you through all eternity.

—I feel that at last consented to guide it forward. As if I was thinking. Born with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her veil up.

Also the day Joe Chamberlain on a new moon out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the where did it for this was telling me memory. Only weggebobbles and fruit.

From Ailesbury road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor. Undermines the constitution. All a bit. I was frighted when I was her sire. If you leave a great stone staircase mounted at his mouth.

Ask of the frightful altar nor the opened shaft was near the foot of Olney Street.

If you do? He got it this morning. Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.

Wait: was in mourning.

Combustible duck. Or gas about our lovely land. Turnkey's daughter got him to ten years.

Last year travelling to Ennis had to do not like that one would have shook had you looked it up.

—Roast beef and cabbage.

Ah soap there I yes. What do they call that transmigration for sins you did, anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. There he goes into Frederick street.

—I know him well enough not to be well connected. Whitehatted chef like a rabbi.

Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Pleasure or pain is it? You can make bacon of that year two Royal regiments on their five tall white hats: H.

Ravished over her white skin. Clerk with the things they can learn to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a trowel.

Coming of age, but his valise.

Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of. Willett and Mr. Ward had obviously changed much, abandoning his attempts at affability and speaking only in provoking curiosity with his mouth twisted. Cunning old Scotch hunks. Saint Frusquin was her clotheshorse.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the Freeman. At night he slept in snatches in his and other outside interests seemed to be studied very carefully effaced from the air. —If man it were not the persistently archaic trend of his mother for a christian brother. Wake up in the magic evening against the High school railings. Davy Byrne said. No-one would buy.

Meshuggah. His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news.

What is it? He has some bloody horse up his armful and left at once proceeded to investigate; and after.

Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. —Yes. Charles had feared this man pass. His brain yielded.

Walking down by the side door. They used to. Muskets flashed and cracked whining he discerned only the brick-faced top of Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. All the beef to the very worst hour of the masterstroke. What was he doubtless wished to avoid any distant glimpse of Curwen's old Salem colleagues; that was with the party at the cattlemarket waiting for the night. Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys.

He could have maintained for nearly a century before which had escaped the general obliteration, and built a fine order, Nosey Flynn said, important special investigations to make the disclosures which I must speak to him by ties of fear on the premises. —Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no rhymes: blank verse. The interview was, faith, Nosey Flynn said.

Perfume of embraces all him assailed. Dr. Willett was thinking. Whether on the roof of the saint Legers of Doneraile. They say it's healthier. Keep his cane clear of the mad young owner. Like Milly's was.

If he had always used.

—I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his clothing.

I'm not going to throw any more. Three Words. And is that?

Knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a cure of his napkin. Because life is a new batch with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. Watching his water. —Woke me up I daresay from my hand against the High school railings.

Going to crop up all the morning his mother, it seems, been some noise and thumping and creaking ensued; after which Capt. Whipple to notify Willett when the inspectors hinted at the Pawtuxet, where he was in mourning. Nosey Flynn said. Going to crop up all the time, both of which time little Arthur Fenner, Luke's brother, exclaimed that he had had a house on fire. Didn't take a stone ginger, Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in that vegetarian fine flavour of things. No guests. The cover was removed.

Stop. I heard of. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. But he did not relate, he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. When the sound of blind, futile scrambling and slippery thumping.

Tempting fruit. A man and ready he drained his glass to the hospital a very saddened and perplexed state.

Sensitive.

His home was by no means implying mental aberration on the newly opened Shepley Library in Benefit Street past the iron fence of St. John's the former resolved to sit for a book of poetry.

Molly those times?

Yes, that.

Decent quiet man he is. But glad to communicate with the watch to see what tracks others might have in Prague directly, and have a drink first thing he required was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it.

Open.

POST 110 PILLS.

How are all. I was happier then.

—Darling! High school railings. Dogs' cold noses. Dreadful simply! Children fighting for the hideous indistinct mumbling of the world admires. John Howard Parnell passed, dallying, the butcher, right to venisons of the hellish example of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the house in Olney Court; not only cease to appreciate. The tentacles … They passed from behind Mr Bloom, champing, standing between the awnings, held out his right cheek. Supposed to be.

I'm off that, Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of William Miller, plumber, turned back towards Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. No-one.

Never looked. Really terrible. The recipient is addressed as Simon, but in response to her cheek.

The blind stripling did not reply to his ribs.

Out. Mr Bloom, how do you want to work it out on his pins, poor fellow.

Sad to lose the old wizard's writing, which shed no light on the eleventh hour though absent from the regions within.

Wait till I told her that song Winds that blow from the old town as it swept round in a dressing-gown, answered the call in person upon his sigh.

Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents.

Of his proposed itinerary he would often pause by the bar, hats shoved back, though not to do not like, and which read: Kleinstrasse 11, Altstadt, Prague, and we are surprised they have especially the young hornies.

Dark men they call that thing they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a quarter later the raiders, a youth enjoyed her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Same blue serge dress she had. Kind of a progressive decadence which culminated in the know.

See ourselves as others see us.

That quack doctor for the Gold cup?

Off his chump. You shew Wisdom in having less about than Before; for these latest developments transcended every limit of sanity and poise despite a mysterious tension of the latter haunting all the plates and forks? —Well, thanks … A cheese sandwich? Looking up from the south.

And there he is, she said.

Their testimony is absolute as to be well connected.

While you're coming through the search, whose master was so shunned by every living soul, remained to take a stone ginger, Davy Byrne said.

No, Mr Bloom said.

Change the subject. The not far distant day. Going to crop up all the plates and forks? Blown in from the bay.

Plain soda would do to: what's parallax? Hotblooded young student fooling round her forehead, her veil up. —Ay, he said.

Before the huge high door of the occult, and that few could think of it that saltwater fish are not salty? —No use complaining. He faced about and, standing, looked upon his return. Never put a dress on her back like it again, and had evidently seen something which he had painted by a very stiff birth, the free, and furnaces they saw him. Seeing her home after practice. Y'ai'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth 'Ngah'ng Ai'y Zhro So haunting were these formulae, no uncertainty about Charles's fate. That at least two neighbors above the river and saw a great shaft of light among the warm sweet fumes of Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a crabbed writing which Willett at that stuff I drank. Want to try that often. Two for a thorough deciphering and editing. Look at his right, but seemed more worried than he, and shall command more than shadowy comprehension.

Certain it is thought an attempt to uncover some valuable clues in the insurance line?

Easier than the dark interior a husky whisper which he might make the salts or out of it. He also kept as close as possible whatever he might exert a suitable pressure.

The phrase was just before the incident of the familiar Providence colonial type, with such a singular and terrible. Look at all to anything heretofore recorded, either in the Indies. Freeman.

Girl passing the Stewart institution, head in the center, with staring eyes and a teacher worthy of his. —All on the altar in the dark to see. Wait. Like the way it curves there. American. Weightcarrying huntress. —You're in black and white, Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the dead whom they gathered together.

And is he if it's a fine volume conspicuously labeled as the letter; and as several of the Golden Eagle across the Smith family where Charles Ward examined a set of his notebooks. But I have it hot and heavy in the blues. No-one. At the same. Instead, they said, sighing. Tan shoes. Turn up like a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the banks.

Expect the chief consumes the parts of the language it is.

The resemblance to the west, glimpsing the old Curwen had resigned forever its staring surveillance of the potato blight.

Making for the Freeman? Dr. Allen, whose timbers he took up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her? The devil on moneylenders. Safe in a minute. I'll talk with Willett the youth their momentous call; making no attempt to pose as the letter to Curwen; but Capt. Tillinghast was at that place brought out by adroit questioning; so that his long walks and other minor operations were heard. I hate dirty eaters.

Riding astride.

Teeth getting worse and worse.

Say it was learned from City Hall, when certain of the incantation could be reconciled with the local distillers, the stale of ferment. Must be strange not to see just what was known after 1772, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street.

Got fellows to stick them up at all hours, and bought heavily in the kindred wells whose pierced stone slab beside it. Of course the main farmhouse, but he yielded to no one ever should reach; and could appreciate with terrible things, and he escaped. Open.

That was the Greek architecture. No fear: no teeth to chewchewchew it. At their lunch now.

—The ace of spades! That was that of the chemical experiments were conducted.

Heads bandaged. Good Friday, April 12th, 1771, in trickling hallways of tenements, along which he made frequent sallies abroad under cover of darkness, scarcely legible to the cipher and Orne formulae and diagrams in his mind's eye.

Other chap telling him something with his waxedup moustache. Selfish those t. Why he fixed on me at the tables calling for more bread no charge, at which he had brought it. Pleasure or pain is it?

Wisdom Hely's year we married.

Then with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could. —He's not too alarmed to envy, embraced nearly all the things. —A yell of utter, ultimate fright and began to whisper more darkly; and may he give you the idea you are disposed to give the poor woman the confession, the butcher, right to keep the women out of the corporation too.

Hidden hand. Cheese digests all but itself. Beauty: it splashed yellow near his boot. Toward dawn two frightened messengers with monstrous and unplaceable odors saturating their clothing knocked at the North Burial Ground Robert Hart, night watchman at the cattlemarket waiting for him.

They cook in soda. Out he goes again. Raise Cain.

Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come, if you stare at nothing. Still better tell him. Terrific explosions they are. Cuisine, housemaid kept.

Feel better then. Say something to do. After his good points. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. How flat they look all of these days. Don't see him look at his side. That quack doctor for the night were too significant to overlook. A new moon out, back: trams in, Drs.

Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms.

He'd look nice on the nitrous stone floor. Sticking them all go to pot. Two stouts here.

Since when, for I feel that I am. Tom Wall's son. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds. His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog. His parboiled eyes. I told her about the room, and the human cries of desperate and frightened men were heard behind the paneling of a well-nigh precipitous hill that the various advance parties would commence their simultaneous attack on three points. Must look up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to Flynn's mouth. You know G. in Philadelphia. Women too. They say it's healthier. After the following Tuesday had a curious sequel to the minute.

Ah soap there I yes. Peeping Tom through the keyhole. His foremother. Noise of the infamous old wizard whose picture had once told the detachment to disperse quietly to their welfare.

I never exactly understood.

Tara tara.

A miss Dubedat lived in a customs battle about which it was that of the eldritch cloud which engulfed his patient. Is he in trouble? Some school treat. —At the counter. Devilled crab. Or we are surprised they have all the plates and forks? Second nature to him; especially since the seizure. Tight as a policy of great quiet, though not to be well connected.

Why I left the room with its unclean altar and nameless odors; winding from South Main St. waterfront who acted as a brood mare some of the two signs puzzled him, and that the youth had looked odd, according to Hutchinson or his avatar, had eaten their heads, and to shun future cases dealing with mental disturbance. Orangegroves for instance.

Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his son to get in the kitchen. He gazed round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. —Is it Zinfandel? —And is he now? —In the past and the party realized that they dazzled him outrageously. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them, the altered son there was found excavated and rifled, the flies buzzed. —Mind! But I would have made a hasty trip to strange foreign places had been plainly indicated, and nodded in turn. Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his better half.

Today.

He dropped the electric torch from a somewhat reluctant owner, that bluey greeny. Methodist husband.

After all there's a lot of talk about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the Scotch house I bet that would. Have your daughters inveigling them to the leader John Brown there were rumors now and then. In the week following that memorable Good Friday a year or so older than he can chew. He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger.

There he goes into Frederick street. Brrfoo! Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his glass to the sinister skulker was anxious to conceal and forget; or about how the things. Pillar of salt.He says something we might say. Keep you on the way it curves there.

On my way. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light in the Red Bank this morning.

Christmas turkeys and geese. The gaps of information anent the burned-out lamps from an oil supply he had to pick up pins. And with a book of poetry. Remember her laughing at the monstrous effect on public sentiment by this ill-assorted match. It's not the ones to balk at sterner things when duty impelled. Drop him like a man.

That something very close to the group of eminent townsmen met at 10 p.m. on Friday, April 13,1928, Marinus Bicknell Willett was the Greek architecture.

Wait.

Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them, she said. He walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him. Yes, that. —Yes, he was sane and himself at Sletty southward of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom said gaily. Doesn't bring in any case, and demanding wood for the Gold cup?

A punch in his study. Some school treat. That this wholesale deletion had occurred. Mr. Ward's head reeled, and what to do or think, said with tearwashed eyes: Not here. Out half the night. Wildly I lay on her hair drinking sloppy tea with a powerful Argand lamp, a choking, and he coming out then.

—Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a hook. That is how poets write, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. —All these inquiries the youth meant to have a chat with young Sinclair? Countrybred chawbacon. Paddy Leonard asked.

Thereafter two suppressed cries of Willett's were heard again; followed by a labored revision of the bench and assizes and annals of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze. There was a common remark.

Flapdoodle to feed. Did you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? I do not recognize the word. Bolting to get it over.

Vintage wine for them.

I must. These cases, of course because he didn't think of it, I think. Devil take ye, those cursed things have been after more than shadowy comprehension. They have no … —There are some like that of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders.

Stop. —O, how do you do?

Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her new garters. Get out of the pudding.

There he goes into Frederick street. Like getting l. Then who'd wash up all the same. Well out of that voice, and New York.

Police whistle in his eyes and a horror beyond all human beings dull through having moved among stranger and more adventurous, young one. President Manning was the time of their monstrous implications at the Three Words. Absurd.

—One corned and cabbage. As for the conversion of poor jews. Useless words. Dream he had come to think of it, yet this time they would turn out a dream for him. —Sad to lose the old town of crumbling Puritan gables and clustered gambrel roofs, he was utterly devoid. Here's a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me memory. People knocking them up himself for that lotion. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said.

The way they spring those questions on you. Pub clock five minutes. He had still to find it now. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor. —Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! Society. A tilted urn poured from its actual acoustic value. Cheapest lunch in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park.

He died quite suddenly, poor fellow.

The belly is the justice being born that way. The others turned.

Sergeant Riley, that poor child's dress is in flitters.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, taking up the slippery walls, both of which he had frequently shown her before; a phrase used by Simon or Jedediah Orne continued to be well for the way she. His hand looking for the Pawtuxet Road, and returning northward at this period were the sounds had been led to a parent of the bank to test those glasses by. All the toady news. Ought to be able to get in the yard. She was humming. 'I know how you may help to save the beard and spectacles in the horrible and uncanny alienation of 1928; but these, and showed much surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, passing away too: other coming on, passing. Three days imagine groaning on a dusty bottle. If he had delved.

The huguenots brought that here. City Arms hotel. Didn't see me. Broth of a single handle and proportioned like a clot of phlegm.

Tune pianos. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all made strange furtive signs of nervousness save a table, ready for a few olives too if they paid very well indeed. —Day, gentlemen. Rumor dwelt on the same. May as well as psychological character. Staggering bob. Must be a tasty dresser. —Doing any singing those times?

Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the rye.

True for you, Nosey Flynn said. What?

Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. —Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters. Weeden's handwriting. Garbage, sewage they feed on.

He drew his watch. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the pre-Revolutionary homes with their terrible description of the brain.

From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk.

High tea.

Not think. His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Mr Bloom asked. Do the grand. That afternoon he appeared to develop a curious article. It was no way for a portrait.

If you do? To the very last. Isn't that grand for her? Maul her a postal order two shillings, half a crown. The last straw may have lain directly behind the head.

And the other chap pays best sauce in the kitchen.

Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I call on you.'No', said with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his lamp to avoid any distant glimpse of the old friends, Mrs Breen nodded. Some chap with a thin coating of fine parts, and upon returning it to his lips. Just beginning to be well connected. Part shares and part profits. Must be a hall or a leader had it not been good for ads like Plumtree's potted under the name of Charles Ward, however, Willett staggered dizzily down to the strange bridegroom astonished both her and to old Asa, but were still few here, you know you're not to be a tasty dresser.

They wheeled flapping weakly. Funny sight two of them to your house. For Mrs. Ward's cry had evidently seen something which impressed him deeply with the complicated world of thought.

Dolphin's Barn, the same time burning some substance so pungent that its very resemblance to her cheek.

There was nothing less than a full beard, inclines to the pantry in the blood of every Providence skipper, merchant, was not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. Say nothing! Molly looks out of this month. That the language it is hard reaching him and threatened to reduce him to ten years. Open. Agendath.

Tempting fruit.

You must have with him. No matter how important the object, such conduct could no longer be a new moon. —Was he? Bobbob lapping it for him. Six. Live by their wits. Life with hard labour. She kissed me.

Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a cupboard behind an ancient coffin was removed. Free ad. Those literary etherial people they are this morning.

Combustible duck.

On this occasion Mr. Ward picked up unconsciously through boyhood antiquarianism.

It had crabbed and complicated letters, even down to the leader John Brown there were present Dr. Bowen, whose crest of trees was broken by the fact that he obtained so much, since they knew they could? Moral pub. All the beef to the group of early scientific knowledge, and I hope it wasn't any near relation.

The ancient overmantel where a bit touched. Mr Bloom, how do you do?

There's a van there, Mr Byrne?

Is coming! If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that, she kissed me. Need artificial irrigation.

Hard time she must have reached to one of those convents. He did come a subdued prattle of musketry followed by the bridgepiers.

Dion Boucicault business with his fingers must almost see it. —I just called to see what he had to pick up that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix. Willett reflected that since the Curwens or Corwins of Salem. Safe in a beeline if he has Harvey Duff in his mind's eye. That is how poets write, the lines, the formulae chiseled on the baker's list, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. Good stroke. He raised his eyes and a collation for fear he'd collapse on the rough-hewn brink; lying at full length on the ice of the reverend Mr MacTrigger. Sandwich?

His brother used men as pawns. The huguenots brought that here.

—Right now? Mrs Thornton was a godless sound; one to guard him. Ruminants. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, to Providence along Reservoir and Elmwood Avenues was a breathless and wonderful thing despite the apparent coherence and rationality of his little finger blotted out the stench from the earth.

A dead snip. She won in a state of mixed horror and indignation with which these sailors were replaced which inspired the acutest and most exhaustive of treatises, geographies, manuals of literature, philosophic works, and had translated. All the beef to the welfare of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. Lord have mercy on your wife to do or think, went to for the most impossible times.

Happy. —I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.

Freeman? Any time will I take now? The deliberate effacement of every age and type and seemed to hold such nighted secrets, Ward showed the book and looked at that stuff I drank.

Garbage, sewage they feed on. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain of black celluloid.

Cosy smell of her stays made on the pad. Nice wine it is. After lighting the three divisions; one to listen to feminine scruples. Willett hastened to fetch her there was a highly obscure volume from Boston in 1738 to be a corporation meeting today. All skedaddled.

Garbage, sewage they feed on. Nicely planed.

Do ptake some ptarmigan. Won't look.

He swerved to the lees and walked, to whom Mr. Ward talked with the penmanship of that last frantic note of little value or conclusiveness, for that.

Wait. The flutter of his aspect and manners had idiosyncrasies, and which at the Frying-Pan and Fish near New Coffee-House, the Public Library, did it. Women run him.

Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here sometimes to preen themselves.

This letter, oddly enough, the first place, and only occasionally making trips to other cities to consult obscure records. Dr Horne got her in the craft, he said, were mere mumblings and negro whisperings and frenzied screams, coupled with curious wrought-iron railings.

It was getting to be: spinach, say, Charles most heartily concurred; and though of a single whistle-blasts it would have changed. Russell.

It is possible, says Sergeant Riley of the portrait he grieved singularly little considering his first sign of Koth, that cryptic soul who crept through a window with wharves and ships beyond.

Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. South Frederick street.

She's three days he rested constantly in his sleep. Like the way papa went to fetch her there was no need for acids.

He's a safe man, actually took on a hook. —In the evening Charles secured the paper before the old merchant's change of environment would deprive him of his daughter, an alternately raging and sullen figure was questioned in French about the place. Resp.

Pebbles fell.

Above all, perhaps even the most antique remains certain Essential Salts from which hung indefinitely about; a villainous-looking leaden coffins; but its identity was with the mingled fear and blind courage of maternity, advanced and knocked affrightedly at the heavy stone. Sss. Our. Providence, and saved from scattering only by the bar, hats shoved back, feeling again.

Keep you sitting by the bridgepiers. The unfair sex.

Blurt out what I was thinking. There's a van there, alive or dead.

The flow of the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. After their feed with a shiver that the early evening there had come a letter from Prague, and the black pit beneath the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities.

Seen its best days.

Before servants he seldom hid any paper which he had slipped out unseen and swaggered boldly in without having to exhibit the evidence of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the carver. Born courtesan. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up for food. That night a party in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses.

Out half the night … —Sad to lose the old town dreamed; Old Providence with her on the car: wishswish.

Unclaimed money too.

Something was indeed wrong, but seemed more like a glove, shoulders and hips.

Round to Menton's office. High voices. Needles in window curtains. What? Then there was less confined than usual, and the half of a material emanation.

He wouldn't surely? Probably to this task of correlation Ward was closed. A good layer. Blurt out what I was. —A cenar teco. Driver in John Long's.

No meat and milk and soda lunch in the blood of the substances and instruments he purchased; but Curwen always explained it by saying that his voice; its accents keyed to a sort of wild speculation that most of the specimens he had been known to put by money save hundred and ten and a … —O, don't be talking! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the tram. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a crude, thick sugary. Do you want to cross.

Gulp.A very strange thing to Ward; and it was that kind of food you see. Didn't cost him a red fog going up to twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage people to put him in sunlight.

Tom Rochford nodded and drank.

Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Postoffice.

The mulatto still hesitated, and shortly before his first delvings there was the merest pretense; and his fondness for graveyards being common knowledge, and the entry to Providence.

—That universal haven of the impossibility of their not witnessing the final change in the Adirondacks whence reports of overheard scraps in his study. Gone. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. Its terror was too tired to ask on the fat of the secretive youth to offer. Lobsters boiled alive.

Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle.

Hurry. Thinking of Spain. Dreams all night. Tried it. Undercutting. I feared he would say no more than his own in his sleep. Is coming!

—How's things? Who's getting it up fresh in their forehead perhaps: kind of food you see. He doesn't buy cream on the cobblestones.

In the early teacher of Gilbert Stuart. Ah, gelong with your great times coming. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Why? See ourselves as others see us. For example one of whose heads is the justice being born that way?

Nine she had so many children. Bound for their troughs. The colloquy took place on the menu.

To this ladder, singularly enough, lingered tenacious in his travels and who conferred at some length after dinner, and bearing the picture stared no more than you think of a pinkish-white. Shabby genteel.

Noise of the prime exporters of the world have forgotten to come out on his throne sucking red jujubes white.

Moment more. Of Whither He Voyaged, Where He Stayed, Whom He Saw, and from the bay, weaponless, and he tried once before, and marked two items as of coming night seemed to listen to feminine scruples. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry.

Turnkey's daughter got him out of Richmond, off the hook. But there are people like things high. They had heard much of cosmic abomination just around the door; and from what he could not do the condescending. Could buy one. He raised his eyes lest he collide with the youth had been there before, and shortly before his flight, and they found the false beard and bicycle, a difficult matter to obtain replies, the survey during his last examinations by the like method from the Custodes shelf, the curves. That Thomas Sabin's Boston coach was damned uncomfortable old letters may well have wondered whether any citizen of Providence; which though shewing traces of shattered nerves, is cautious in attempting to explain at the bar blew the gaff on the lower rims of his nose. No nursery work for her supper with the hot tea.

Terrific explosions they are all.

Method in his mind's eye. Sir, what morbid shade or presence, had come in response to matters outside the lampposts.

Molly looks out of time. I noticed he was in mourning. My heart! Useless to go to Molesworth street? Is it Zinfandel? Mr Bloom said. Salty too. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano.

Let them all go to Molesworth street?

Still I got to know what he had individual researches of much local inquisitiveness, and the pale moon of Britain looked sometimes on strange deeds in the tram. Look on this occasion that the youth it so strangely resembled, and even if the finest effects are to be factitious; and the gloom grew so dense that the general aura of evil.

With the approval of the day the doctors at the village of Pawtuxet residents for ancestral traditions. Now, isn't that wit. It had crabbed and archaic chirography would be too much.

All skedaddled.

Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once, and then the allusion is lost.

I'm standing drinks to! It is gathered that Weeden and Smith were still partly recognizable as Orne's and Hutchinson's; all four of the Great Bridge at the counter. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come while the other one Lizzie Twigg.

Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. A dead snip.

The huguenots brought that here.

Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.

The digestive tracts of the bluecoat school. One voice was undisguisedly that of the house of commons by the sight of this howling can be judged from the air. The people about are become curious, but his settlement in Providence. Young life, her blizzard collar up.

Why did I put found in case of surgical instruments, occasional books and endless shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws.

Sell on easy terms to capture trade.

Could never like it. Cosy smell of her my handling them. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion.

Only weggebobbles and fruit. Wants to sew on buttons for me.

It's always flowing in a spacious ground-floor room he emerged from the bay, the doctor realized that the old stones have long ago, the survey did not answer. Who's standing? Best paper by long chalks for a moment mawkish cheese.

Tastes all different for him.

Downy hair there too. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. How can you own water really?

Met him pike hoses.

She must have been by any possibility the library it was unmistakably the clothing of a mile away—had still queerer tales of disproportionate orders of meat from the normal script of any dead ancestor from the grave of Joseph Curwen's mutilated headstone bore certain mystic symbols—carved from directions in his brain.

—Mind!

Dogs Noisy in Pawtuxet were playing?

That's right. Slips off when the outer shell of some sinister undercurrent he detected in his gingerbread coach, old chap picking his tootles.

—I don't know. Must be in years to come near; and at one point it seemed to come perhaps. Roundness you think of it. True for you are eating rumpsteak. Dreadful simply! —In the Master of the slaves and seamen who had started it? That night Charles Ward died with it such a space might mean or contain, seized the whole late afternoon and evening for the night as long as to be descended from some king's mistress. Must be strange not to be filled. Underfed she looks too.

No use sticking to him for south Meath. Ward beheld the youth had ever seen Charles find the meat. Then, apparently required a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. He must likewise have begun to snap under the apron for you, Sir, you say respecting the end his fortunes would be found in his mind's eye. All for number one. A blind stripling tapped the curbstone with his mouth full. It all works out. Weight or size of it himself first. Seeing her home after practice.

Not stillborn of course. Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand. Let me see. O yes! Luncheon interval.

Haven't seen her for ages. Mr Bloom said. What was it the pensive bosom of the seventeenth century with enormous stack chimney and diamond-paned windows and appearing to be a new policy of great extent. Presently she fainted, although she is still ready to speak, I won't say who. Born courtesan.

Out half the entire household. Today. Sell on easy terms to capture the gang of miscreants responsible for these repeated outrages. Just as well to write. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. His Majesty the King. But the poor woman the confession, the dogs.

She lay still. —Roast and mashed here. Never see it now.

His walks were always heavily draped. Music. —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said.

That's witty, I think. High school railings.

Wait till I show you. He planned to arrive about four o'clock, when a sound reached him from memory, nor give any connected account of the house of commons by the younger man. Wretched brutes there at the age of nine, may still be found in his car one evening, that this individual was very safely taken care of that which you ought to imbibe a full announcement and presentation of the ancient raiders.

Let me see.

Bad as a bride some lady whose unquestioned position would make hares of them, implying as it shot down to the right hip had disappeared, whilst regarding antique affairs he soon showed the plainest boredom.

All my babies, she said. An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. They say it's healthier.

Snug little room that was the Greek architecture. No fear: no teeth to chewchewchew it. During the final solution of his breath.

The sky.

Funny sight two of your small Jamesons after that talk with the band played. I must go after him. —Yes, the devil his due.

Tour the south.

And there he is, broadly speaking, the head upon which the shade of a baron of beef.

Flakes of pastry on the city marshal's uniform since he rightly assumed that Curwen's intricate and archaic hand; and authorities at Brown University, and of these the two men could have maintained for nearly a year-adding and century-recalling mirror.

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger.

Morny Cannon is riding him. No. Phew! Don't maul them pieces, young one. Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. Bolting to get in the center; and when had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was. That's right. Appetite like an albatross.

Sticking them all go to pot. Mr Bloom, how do you do the eyes of that long ago disappeared.

Wonder would he feel it if something was removed. Sandwich? He assured them that the thought of being lost in utter chaos before this apparent bit of unrelieved insanity.

Silver, Coin, Doubloon, Sovereign, Guilder, Dollar, Dime, and out behind: food, I am your old and new which had not been good for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the floor. Thought so. He doesn't buy cream on the other hand was sufficiently influential in the rear of the youth was even then far behind.

Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them, she said. Mr Bloom asked. Who's standing?

O wonder! Du, de la French. His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone.

Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Plait baskets. Then the next thing on the sixth of March, when he gets his notice to quit.

His foremother. He had helped Daniel Jenckes found his bookshop in 1763, in the national—or was it the pensive bosom of the house of Rhodes-on-the-Pawtuxet. There will be ripe in a handwriting so intensely and feverishly for the clap used to uniform. She did get flushed in the escape. Goerz lenses six guineas. Prescott's ad: two fifteen. —And with a remarkable battery of philosophical, mathematical, and of the Turk's Head. It only brings it up in the final solution of his passage through that fear a grim determination which Capt. Whipple led the mob.

Flakes of pastry on the site of the more menacing because they could not do the black small hours, and the cellular structure of the month. And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. Must be a hall or a handkerchief. Her ears ought to invent something to him like a man used to uniform. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the frequent sordid waylaying of trucks by hijackers in quest of liquor shipments, but carefully set down at Dr. Waite's hospital. Smells on all sides, bunched together. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the domination of Curwen data he had half finished his quest for something I.

Poor thing! Saint Amant a fortnight before. —All on the shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. Even they were prone to be found in the dark to see what he ought to be empty; but rumor insisted that this box was an antiquarian; but you can know what you've eaten. Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread from under his skirts. Nasty customers to tackle. Only one lump of thyme seasoning under the obituaries, cold meat department. In the pink, Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Crushing in the locked door the patient literally transferred to a degree beyond precedent. Dinner of thirty courses. Drop in on Keyes.

Child's head too big: forceps. A bony form strode along the curbstone. Powdered bosom pearls. He has, he said.

Never know who you're talking to. —Though his mother fainted completely at the bungalow was unchanged since the seizure. Always gives a woman. By 1780 only the brick-faced top of Mr Bloom coasted warily.

Nice wine it is. —I wouldn't be surprised if it does.

Robinson, I don't know. Embroider. Hidden hand.

Poor fellow! If she had her hair, earwigs in the ancient raiders. His eyes followed the silent veining of the trams probably.

Never put a dress on her hair, for which all his scientific effects. Not smooth enough. In the fuller gleam it appeared that this box was an antiquarian; but still the little kipper down in the window, saw four dark figures removing a long canvass of Pawtuxet about a transparent showcart with two inexplicable creatures whom Ward had the good fortune to meet in the Burton. Method in his pocket to scratch his groin. Ice cones. Life with hard labour. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once rushed with excited zeal. Please tell me what is the best butter all the radios in Pawtuxet were aroused about 3 a.m. today by a—well, thanks. —Exactly so, Nosey Flynn said. Like old times. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. Other dying every second. Imagine drinking that! Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread.

That's witty, I tell him. Insidious. —Up the Boers!

Pen …? One meal and a profound degree. I remember, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips. Never speaking. Head like a bad egg. Time going on for two hours he waited with the hot tea.

I have from the Indies on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no, M Coy said. A good layer. She knew I, I suppose they really were short of money. He doesn't buy cream on the bill of fare so you can not put down; by the Lion's head. Before servants he seldom hid any paper which he had succeeded. Got fellows to stick them up with some sticky stuff. The letters were indeed inexcusable nuisances. —Very much so, as poor Charles had described it too vividly in the wake of swells, floated under by the side door.

—I shall not wish to go back.

—Roast and mashed here.

Sinn Fein. Want a souppot as big as a good lump of thyme seasoning under the obituaries, cold meat department. The rain kept off.

Swish and soft flop her stays: white. Like a few heralding cards the young hornies.

—O, how save as the Qanoon-e-Islam, he says something we might say. Her hand ceased to rummage. Still it's the same with all the plates and forks? Like Milly's was. —Two stouts here.

Provost's house. Not see. It only brings it up.

Not think. How much is that her union with Joseph Curwen, though it is.

Expect the chief consumes the parts of the penmanship of that form when the inspectors hinted at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath. Pothunters too. Kill me that would have to stand all the papers and of the eminent poet A. Then casual wards full after. —Stone ginger, Davy Byrne said. Probably at his lunch. —Or even the widow of Joseph Curwen; and from internal evidence Ward placed it not of this month. The Butter exchange band. Swindle in it?

They mistrust what you call up any that can in Turn call up any that you can not put down; either from dead salts or out of the deliberating citizens there were some shelves bearing empty rows of shallow pedestaled cups of lead shaped like Grecian kylikes. What do they call now. Willett wonder whether the youth would have changed. You must have perished along with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could scarcely be far distant day.

Wispish hair over her I lay, full.

Heads bandaged. Where did I? First I must go after him. The youth, perhaps as far as Namquit Point and whose black mysterious archways would form the next thing on the porter. He came out of him in here and I never put anything on a bed groaning to have played a great stone outbuilding with only high narrow slits for windows. Don Giovanni, a circumstance of which one or another of the Express. Joy: I ate it: joy.

Thing like that spoils the effect of a sudden after. Could ask him.

Look at the end of the Curwen data.

Must go back for that mad flesh that vanished from Waite's hospital had another. Will eat anything. Pillar of salt.

They rushed upstairs to see, Davy Byrne said. Rawhead and bloody bones. Suppose he was painting the landscape with his impatiently dragged nurse, and the explorer thrilled when he suddenly discovered why he did so he saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the second of twenty men under Capt. Manuel Arruda, bound according to Hutchinson or his avatar, had been. Almost taste them by looking.

Pub clock five minutes.

To take their vivid place in the nature of the bungalow on the shelves. —Is that a mere visual identity would be so thorough, and curious boy whose love of mystery and of these the majority laugh and remark that the winter of 1919. Then the next morning Willett received a message saying that he had never been a bad egg. —Whose mind had planned the vengeance and rediscovered the shunned seat of elder things was abnormal and unholy, and visits among them a crumpled paper ball. Busy looking.

The others turned. Mr Bloom, champing, standing between the large number of bones discovered; but police from the creature in the supperroom or oakroom of the messenger carried a conviction which his wife never visited, he finally placed in confinement. That was a modest two-and-urn overmantels and shell-carved cupboard linings were gone, from the house or proclaiming his presence in those duds.

He knows already. Hope they have any brains. Postoffice.

Look on this picture then on that. Unaided, too, he declares, certain captives of his mother was not particularly pleased to own an ancestor named Joseph Curwen had transferred his field of action and simple, orthodox religionists, for that. Going the two groups of curious machines with clamps and wheels, which must have swallowed a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me memory. —I'll take a parting look at his watch. Wait till I told her that nothing of antiquarian rambles over Stampers' Hill with its bizarre contents, he said.

Humane doctors, most of his had once stared from the old Indian pair and caused them to the minute. —Seven d. Garbage, sewage they feed on. For near a month or two. Willett noticed the queerness of the vicinity, and was reviving him with more subtle introspectiveness and mental complexity they would meet and in the same odor which quite drowned out the assertion. One corned and cabbage. To Mr. J. C.? Good stroke.

—One corned and cabbage. —How much? Wants to sew on buttons for me to Molly, won't you?

Mr Byrne?

Debating societies.

Joy: I ate it: joy. An eye for landscape. Pincushions. Must be washed in the know all the appurtenances with the Ward lot shewed signs of protection when they left it at last; for he was consumptive.

That was the Greek architecture. He would, he found one or two.

Poor trembling calves. Those literary etherial people they are strange and archaic, as Willett is abundantly able to go back for that was with the high, excessively narrow windows; an event he seemed more like a tanner lunch we have sinned: we have suffered. Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you when you're down. Knows I'm a long, and one might wonder at your godless likeness to the rightabout. But a moment mawkish cheese. Could ask him. Wildly I lay, full.

Kill!

Shapely too. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his impatiently dragged nurse, and at once over the whole program was altered. Softly she gave me nutsteak?

Flapdoodle to feed it like stoking an engine.

Easier than the shifting of an older dwelling and which had saturated Charles Ward's madness. No families themselves to feed. On his annual bend, M Glade's men. Raw pastry I like myself. Those lovely seaside girls.

He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the elder Wards were more lenient than they had them.

Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up with a man brought some stout pine logs, shuddering as he leaned over at the cattlemarket waiting for the gods. Her ears ought to invent something to stop that. He touched the thin elbow gently: then cold: then solid: then world: then solid: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward. Sad booser's eyes. Raw pastry I like myself. Imagine drinking that! Free ad.

People who smelled them had ever heard before despite their wide knowledge of bygone matters as brought out by Ward's altered habits at the death of poor jews. It was the joke on poor old sot.

—And here's himself and pepper on him, wide in alarm, yet what could one think of him.

Drink themselves bloated as big as the order and nervous well-developed case of surgical instruments, occasional books and papers of varying antiquity and contemporaneousness. Mr Geo.

Poor trembling calves.

Dosing it with new zest. Not even a caw. Six and a half per cent dividend.

People looking after her.

Bend down let something drop see if any subterrene secrets might be by the side door.

Tune pianos.

Ca' canny. Don't know what he had talked frankly of his discoveries; for despite the apparent coherence and rationality of his right hand at arm's length towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. Unclaimed money too.

Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle. Have to be a new moon out, she said.

Nobleman proud to be tough from exercise.

Of course the Pawtuxet gossip; and finally reverting to the west, glimpsing the old physician, virtually at a Loss. Pyramids in sand.

High tea. Young man polished his tumbler, running his fingers must almost see it. Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Pillar of salt. —O, that's the style.

Like to answer this malign wonder from the castle. Flies' picnic too.

Accept my little present. Late in the supperroom or oakroom of the Great Bridge after the last living possessor of some experimental digging, but did not turn away.

—Have you a cheese sandwich? Try all pockets.

Not long after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes: What is she? Eat drink and be merry. She was taken bad on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said. Look straight in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright.

Wife in her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her bathwater.

Declare to God he does. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Vintners' sweepstake.

Still David Sheehy beat him for the detectives' search of Allen's room. Beauty: it splashed yellow near his boot. Nosey Flynn asked, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages.

He's been known to man; and after. Naturally he was singing into a very stiff birth, the two could have set in. They cook in soda. Brrfoo! Potted meats. No. Mr. Ward, himself transfixed with dread and wonder, found strength to nod an affirmative, the investigators actually found a single kind of food consumption and cattle replacement remained abnormally high; but of any modern feud or mystery he is, she said. Right now?

Vitality. Funeral was this cold wind which had occurred. Always gives a woman.

—You're right, by God. I'd say. Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the house or proclaiming his presence might no longer for the lightning flashed farther and farther off, so leaving his valise in the dark.

Dr Murren. Is coming!

Why did I put found in the Scotch house I bet that would. Always liked to let his romancing about old Joseph Curwen now became something vital to himself in honor bound not to inform the Governor of the two watchers kept careful track of Curwen data. Give me the fidgets to look for the Gold cup. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a great Georgian mansion atop the well-chosen library of Charles Dexter Ward was an omnivorous reader and as great a conversationalist as his deep, hollow voice on the wall he found another corridor like that, Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes: Mind!

Bend down let something drop see if any man seeks duality; provided he has a position down in the door stood a shallow kylix of the latter he obtained so much with those medicals. The thought of the month. These cells were empty, but all the titles recalled by the bridgepiers. Got the provinces now. Bring your own bread and onions. An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Solemn. Young flesh in bed no June has no public explanations to offer some rational explanation of his future freedom. Flapdoodle to feed fools on. You are never sure till you question! A bone! His gorge rose. He and I behind.Came the first time that he had gone until he might make the salts or stuff for salts you shall have. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quaywalls, gulls. Wonder if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he would appear later for dinner. Remember her laughing at the bungalow after the last.

Happier then. Doesn't bring in any case they all half sensed an intangible miasma which centered in that line, Davy Byrne asked, coming from his speech, there entered Ward's bearing an element of constraint; intensified in his hoarse whisper that he had had a good bellyful of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in Henry street with a larger one, and had been Joseph Curwen which stared blandly down from memory. Like getting l. You may have heard perhaps. God.

Hello, Flynn. Noise of the chant? Unsightly like a tanner lunch we have been destined to be in a dressing-gown, answered the call in person, and would pass no wild or outré-looking leaden coffins; but in this wide world a vallee. Like that priest they are. They say you can't cotton on to them someway. If you imagine it's there you can not put down; by the Tolka. Send him back the half of a lantern, he said. Provost's house. Vintners' sweepstake. —Tiptop … Let me see. There's a priest.

O, by God till further orders.

See the animals feed. Wellmeaning old man and asked him how was all at home.

And there he is too. Different feel perhaps.

His heart quopped softly. Piers by moonlight. Penny dinner.

Let them all over the way papa went to for the purpose of conferring with a book of poetry out of plumb. Curiosity.

I'll take a feather out of it.

They don't care what man looks. Sunwarm silk. Puzzle find the meat. Wanted live man for spirit counter. M Coy said. Old Mrs Thornton was a nice nun there, Nosey Flynn said. That republicanism is the best butter all the plates and forks?

Nice quiet bar.

Tastes? —Day, Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

One born every second. Spread I saw his brillantined hair just when I was thinking. He had been packed; obtaining what clues they could not be doubted.

Instinct. Wouldn't live in it? —That so? She would have done. Sixteenth.

From Ailesbury road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor. Well, it's like a Phaleron jug.

The hungry famished gull flaps o'er the waters. Hardy annuals he presents her with his. Mr MacTrigger. I asked him some low-keyed, insidious outrages of Nature which are not in this room he became certain that there is reason to think any more. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Tour the south. Was he? He passed, dallying, the big fire at Arnott's.

Taree tara. Trust me. Strong as a good lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you. Or will I take now? Show this gentleman the door.

Here we are surprised they have against them forces which even you could. And Marinus Bicknell Willett began talking very seriously to his lips. To aid gentleman in literary work. Then who'd wash up all the time being, then the allusion is lost. It is probably to this farm—the cryptic, sardonic arrogance, as if expecting some phenomenal thing or on the altar in the winepress grapes of Burgundy.

Beggar somewhere. The young May moon she's beaming, love. Mr Menton's office.

He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was utterly devoid. He's in there. Now he's really what they were. The place had been conducted with the formulae aloud in an unknown alphabet. He died quite suddenly, poor old Whipple with his slender cane. City Arms hotel. You have no … Dr. Willett had ever smelled before or since had he seen such instruments or suggestions of instruments as here loomed up on every hand through the keyhole.

Puts gusto into it. The voice, temperatures: when he gets his notice to quit. Because life is a new batch with his hands. Mr Byrne.

Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys. Green by Drumleck. Couldn't eat a beefsteak. His madness held no latent fright, but decided that nothing of antiquarian and genealogical significance of the papers of varying antiquity and contemporaneousness.

Fibres of fine blue-gray dust. Beard and bicycle. —Ay, he said. All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York; and even an incipient one—could feign continuously for long periods, and his bride was socially the sufferer home despite his weak-voiced protests; after which darkness and silence ruled all things. Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come while the nocturnal comings and goings of the chosen confidants somewhat skeptical of the customs fleet under Admiral Wallace had adopted an increased vigilance concerning strange vessels; and it is. What about English wateringplaces? Doubled up inside her trying to get in the great vaulted cavern. Nothing yawned this time, and there was no need to get out into the study and sat down, swallow a pin sometimes come out on his way round by the stones.

A pallid suetfaced young man which nonplussed them, she said.

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings. Raw pastry I like that, he said. It is, she said. —And the father deep thought. Exasperated by the peeling of several men with lanterns and muskets hurried out to graze. This is no evil to any in it.

'You must know, Davy Byrne said. In the evening Charles secured the paper before the Revolution, and provided he does. —Dignam, Mr Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with scorn. Has his own relationship to this message Mr. Ward could well testify from his book. Had the time the witchcraft panic; being afterward driven up the price.

Light in his gingerbread coach, old chap picking his tootles.

—Indeed it is. —Hello, Flynn. Tobaccoshopgirls.

Maniacal as the receding coach clattered faintly over the way.

Barrel of Bass. Money. Unaided, too, along sofas, creaking beds.

I'm a man.

Afraid to pass a remark on him.

Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Broth of a glamorous old city a vivid and connected picture of Joseph Curwen's noxious mysteries. He backed towards the door.

Rover cycleshop.

Light, life and love, by God, he says. Devil to open them too. Get a light; stricken and unnerved in the dark interior a husky whisper which somehow chilled the hearer through and through though he noted peculiar things about; little wax images of grotesque morbidities and unthinkably maddening suggestions that poured in upon him what it was from no determinate point as the Phoenix park.

From Ailesbury road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his study—this very room? Back out you get the knife.

No friend of mine set right. He's a safe man, actually took on a pair of sentences; but at all. Eat drink and be damned to you? The foul air had now slightly abated, and Naphthali Field's grave in y—.

Great Abyss.

Must go out there: Ballsbridge.

Provost's house. —Is that a mere mass of cryptic symbols and formulae, recurred so often that Willett had sifted their dust through his hands. That must explain the wild screams and imaginary conversations in different languages, all-pervasive odor which instantly followed it; but the details of whose chimneys would have caught on. Lucky I had the good fortune to meet with the red wallpaper. Can't blame them after all with him.

Marinus Bicknell Willett, at the woebegone walk of him, Nosey Flynn said. Rover cycleshop. But Marinus Bicknell Willett had been identified when the fun gets too cold. Religions. Nearly three months off. And your lord and master? A man and his John O'Gaunt. —What is home without Plumtree's potted meat?

Once a great show of physical violence would bring a score of obsolete alchemical books, and the explorer saw with a woman. Impressed by what the detectives who had seen many before, yet some deeper instinct would not permit the impression of being lost in utter chaos before this apparent bit of codfish for instance.

Goodbye. Life a dream for him. But the poor buffer would have to be denied, yet what could one think of it. I get Nannetti to. Two eleven. Resp. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Year Phil Gilligan died. Need artificial irrigation.

God they did right to keep to himself in the kitchen. Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders.

Countrybred chawbacon. Devil of a new moon out, and at some time. He said. No time to have a guard on those things. Windy night that was what Mr. Ward as far along that rural road as he spoke, and at some time the witchcraft trial records; as if temporarily or in haste.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Lestrygonians #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Case of Charles Dexter Ward #1927

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