I must have been the worm in this metaphor, stabbed through a hook and drowning.
Jenny could hear them whispering behind the door.
Over the next few weeks, Jenny and Elsie’s room devolved into a pigsty.
The rain had finally cleared, and the crops were devastated.
Jenny’s stitches never held for very long.
Men are brooding; women are mad.
Elsie sat in bed with her wooden lap desk, scratching her wool-covered leg rather than writing.
It’s not exactly nice, knowing that there’s something wrong with you.
I can’t say that I like to dwell on it much either. But I do, all too often.
The two listened as the Hag of Beara wailed in waves.
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