Tom Piccirilli

“The Crone tires quickly and reaches out for the velvet draperies, sits on the divan, breathing heavily. She's too ancient to have a name any longer. When she coughs you can hear the ages rattling inside her shrunken frame. No human names can cling to her any more- they slip from her dusty shriveled flesh like a young girl's whimsies.”


Tom Piccirilli, A Choir of Ill Children
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A Choir of Ill Children A Choir of Ill Children by Tom Piccirilli
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