A jaunty dirk.

after appel

A jaunty dirk – full of promise and fecund – she strode up the hill to the sun and the constant sea.

Finally, the last vestige of who she was loosened itself and as she propelled bone and muscle forward along the familiar path, it sloughed off, pink and moist, to land in a gobbet of wobble. Damn! No plastic bag to pick it up.

She strode on – and turned to glimpse all that had been her – innocent, forming and still plumped, soak into the warm stone – and she regretted it for an instant.

She had been a good life.

Braced and knowing, she felt her revealed skin flap darkly around her new purpose.

Dry and loose, it still served to contain the wet interior of her ideas and beliefs – and it would serve until they too were wrung out and she was good for nothing except forking Rose with a spatula.

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