Hildegarde Serle

Hector was insatiably curious, asking his “why”s to anyone prepared to listen.

Ophelia tilted her head to see whether the sky was looking that menacing. She thought she was seeing things when, instead of clouds, she saw Thorn’s grim face.

Swings alive, aren’t we swaying rather too much?

When would you like me to return?”

“Me?”

When would you like me to return?”

“Me?”

When would you like me to return?”

“Me?”

Thorn leant over, in a sustained vertebral extension, but he didn’t return the watch to her. Instead, he placed his mouth on hers.

He thinks God’s hand is coming down to hit him, but it ruffles his hair, teasingly.

“You already have been, more than enough if you ask me. I am just looking forward to the wedding being over and you leaving the Pole with your whole family.”

I think we could have all lived happily, in a way, God, me and the others, if it weren’t for that accursed book. It disgusted me. I knew what bound me to it in the most sickening of ways, but the horror of that particular knowledge came later, much later. I didn’t understand straight away, I was too ignorant. I loved God, yes, but I despised that book, which he’d open at the drop of a hat. As for God, he relished it. When God was happy, he wrote. When God was furious, he wrote.