13StopsEastOfWhitechapel

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
CollectionProse 13StopsEastOfWh...011 years 3 months ago
CollectionPoem 13StopsEastOfWh...011 years 3 months ago
StorySheet 13StopsEastOfWh...011 years 5 months ago
StoryLove is Colder than Death 13StopsEastOfWh...011 years 5 months ago
StoryI will It 13StopsEastOfWh...011 years 5 months ago
StoryWell; Or, Poem For John McCain 13StopsEastOfWh...316 years 1 week ago
StoryMetro Ligne 1, 19hr 45, today 13StopsEastOfWh...316 years 4 months ago
StoryEverest Mark Heathcote116 years 4 months ago
StoryHey Freckle 13StopsEastOfWh...216 years 4 months ago
StoryEpitaph 13StopsEastOfWh...216 years 4 months ago

My stories

Epitaph

The will is white and tells us lies, and wills us to believe. Beneath a fetid mound of turned soil; should you come to mourn my passing, this is where you’ll find me.

I will It

This is the match with which I strike the moistened box along one side. The damp ash, tinder, faggot, brush: All are waiting in the grate. I cup the matchbox in my left hand;

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