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August 22 - August 30, 2025
At Swanstone, duggery was skulled.
He pushed his hood back a little, so that she could see a bit of the Face. He tilted his head so that his cheekbone caught the light. His cleft chin clefted majestically. Who wouldn’t want to heal this? Fairhrim, as it transpired.
“Kidnap it is,” said Osric. He rose, poured the onions onto the floor, and flapped the empty sack at Fairhrim. “Get in.”
It was hard, being perfect in an imperfect world, but Aurienne managed.
The card was perfumed, which offended Aurienne more than the assassination appointments: Swanstone was a scent-free establishment.
The waystone glowed into life, flashed Mind the gap – Aurienne minded the gap very much – and whisked her into a ley line.
The February wind grew lazy as they climbed; it opted to pass through them, rather than around.
The barn wasn’t perfectly clean, by the by. There was a heap of steaming excrement right in front of Aurienne, and it could talk.
He did not complain. He merely perspired.
This specimen had the fortitude of wet quiche.
She had vexed the Abscess,
“Entrez,” came Tristane’s voice. Osric entrez’d.
They climbed up the Down. Which upset him.
“Posture like a damp croissant.”
“Sometimes I’m not certain what the difference is between diplomat and doormat. Three or four letters but much the same thing.
Aurienne took the memo, grateful to have been reminded about the challenging times. She might’ve forgotten about them, otherwise.
My mother died of – causes.” “Not natural?” “No.”
“Suck a fart out of my arse,” instructed the cricket.
He’s only got one brain cell and he uses it to not shit on his own head.”
Mordaunt did not take the hint. He was both clingy and thick, like a tenacious mucus.
“Good. Off you fuck.
The wind penetrated his open mouth – rude – and came out of his nostrils.
“I’d kill for just a cup of tea,” said Aurienne. She searched the cupboards. Mordaunt said that he would kill for a cup of tea, too, only literally, unlike her, the coward.
“I’ll just kill them a little.”
He rubbed his hands like a fly who has found a particularly succulent poo.
“You had something to show me?” asked Osric. “No,” said Fairhrim. “I invited you here for the sheer pleasure of your company.” Gods, she could be dry. Osric’s lips chapped on the spot.
His scars cicatriced sexily, his jaw chiselled heroically, his pecs popped manfully – not for Fairhrim, but because that was their usual state.
One-Tooth’s potent breath exfoliated Osric’s face as he went.
“Nice girl, this Haelan,” said Leofric in a whisper. “Bit uptight, though. She could do a Kegel and snap your cock off.
She looked as uncomfortable as he had felt with thanks – only his had expelled like thanks-vomit whereas hers had needed to be pushed, like thanks-constipation. He ought to propose a stool softener to her, for her mouth.
This time she joined him on the balcony with oblong brown things on a plate, like some sort of poo sommelier.
“Nothing happened. That was, perhaps, the problem. There was no quarrel, there was no explosion. Aedan is too perfect. He has no faults to love him by.”
She was a thing between desire and impossibility.
