The image (I pray) of a hugely corpulent man, fully nude and as pale as an exsanguinated corpse, accosts me while I shave. He struggles, wedged and overflowing the claw-footed tub that Mrs. Mallory had installed last season.
Instead of sand this morning, ash. A strikingly black, greasy pile of glossy flakes. And instead of a dry, crackling heat in the air, I felt an oily warmth, quickly dissipating. My duvet cover was ruined,
They call it a desert, because it never rains here. And there is sand, I suppose. But it is sand only at a single remove from solid rock, lacking only pressure to return it to that state.
Tiny was a burly white Duck who knew no Fear. He feared not Winter’s cold, nor Night’s dark, nor Hunter’s boomstick. He wings were mighty, his plumage immaculate, and his heart pure.
About This Site
This website is for entertainment purposes only - any physical or psychological changes experienced are the responsibility of the user.
