The Fire That Burns The Brightest

Wynd was glad that he had survived to see his twelfth birthday. At last he would go before the elders and get himself apprenticed. The great mystery, of course, was to whom he would be bonded. After all, what kind of craftsman would want a clumsy, half-sized weakling who could not tell his right from his left well enough to even read the runes? Magic was out, of course. He had the ability to memorize an entire book of spells, but no
wizard could possibly have the patience to teach him the spells and vocalized runes by rote.

Well, there was always farming. He grimaced. His idea of hell consisted of a backbreaking job with no mental stimulation or opportunities for new discoveries. Somewhere, out in the universe, a god with a twisted sense of humour had taken a thin, reedy boy out of the great southern city and placed him in a northern village that was very far away from anywhere else, and not very close to nowhere, either. He was certain that somewhere in the
far-off civilized south was a tall, stocky youth with powerful forearms and cooked collyflower for brains. An athletic and action-minded person, who
was miserably apprenticed to a magus or a skald.

“Happy birthday, half pint.”

He turned around to the direction of the voice. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he complained, and turned his back on his sister.

“All right, snub me just because you’re an old man now. See if I care.” Her arms had been resting on the outside window ledge, but she pulled herself up off the ground and sat on the wide stone frame.

Her lithe form was clearly visible inside the brass mirror, but he was not paying attention. He had his left arm bent, and he was flexing it to see if
he was any more handsome than he had been a day ago. “I think that’s a muscle, Debora,” he said hopefully.

Debora hoisted herself off the window and inspected the arm that was in question. “Are you sure it’s not just a vein?”

“Very funny. Of course it’s not a vein. If it were a vein, it would be blue.”

“Well, if you put it that way – your entire arm is a little bluish. Wynd, have you been taking ill again?”

“No, I’ve been getting a moonburn.”

She laughed. “I’ll have to restock your supply of healthful herbs, I can see that. So, how does it feel to be of age?”

“Don’t remind me. My voice only started to crack yesterday.”

“Poor baby,” she said sarcastically. “Don’t worry, you’ll grow. Just keep eating.”

He stared at her with a mixture of envy and worship. She was as unalike to him as was naturally possible.The gap between them was only four years, but it seemed an aeon. Physically the difference was even more dramatic. While
he was pale and sickly, almost ghostlike in appearance, Debora was wild and dark. Hair so brown that it was almost black cascaded over a pair of large suntanned shoulders, to swing insolently at her waist. Her hands were as
strong as his were delicate.

Debora was no farmer, however. Although she often helped the field hands during the spring planting and the summer and autumn harvests, her role in
the village was that of healer. After their father had died, leaving them alone, she had assumed his position naturally, setting bones and delivering
children and, through some miracle that Wynd could not begin to comprehend, had even got herself apprenticed to the healer in the next village to learn more of the mysteries to be found in plants – and then had actually escaped from the confines of the village under the pretext of “learning more,” to wander about the countryside. She would not talk about her travels, but still, somewhere she had learned magical and esoteric things, about
“bacteria” and “hygiene” and other strange concepts. Apparently this knowledge saved the life of old Greer when his hand was nearly chopped off
during the last barley harvest. Wanderer, labourer, midwife, medicine woman – Debora managed to collect titles the way Wynd liked to collect
interesting rocks.

He brought himself back to the present with a rueful shake of his head. “I’ll need muscles, if I’m going to be apprenticed to a farmer.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re going to be apprenticed to me.”

His eyes widened with longing, but then he snorted. “And just how do you think you’re going to accomplish that?” It was impossible.

“I’ll pull my weight in the Council of Elders, convincing them how intelligent and eager and quick to grasp you are, and how retentive your
memory is – ”

“Oh. Really. And who would listen? You’re only a woman.”

She lowered her eyelids and let her hand fall on his shoulder. “Don’t I know it.” Seeing his startled expression, she laughed with gloating pleasure. “Wynd, my elf, never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman. The men in this village might think they have the upper hand, but
we’ll see who’s so superior in the end.”

“Sure. I believe you.” Turning from the mirror, he began to step across the room to fetch his tunic, only to trip on a footstool.

Debora shook her head. “It’s a wonder you haven’t managed to accidentally kill yourself.”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, knowing that Debora was smiling to herself, the same superior smirk that she’d had when as a child she had succeeded in confusing him by hiding all of his toys in various parts of their cottage. His father had still been alive then, since that incident had occurred before the outbreak of the spring plague. He was an orphan now, cared for only by Debora. It occurred to him that had his mother not died of childbed fever and his father of the bloody flux, Debora would probably be an ordinary farmer’s wife like any other woman. Any other woman of the village would have cursed the terrible necessity of giving up a good marriage to care for her younger brother and the village as well, the only healer being now dead; but it had never actually occurred to Wynd to pity Debora, the way the women of the village probably did. She had, at any rate, never pitied herself – or if she had at any time succumbed to self pity, she
never told anyone.

“Come on, now,” she said, glancing up at the sky. “There’s no time to grow muscles. You look fine enough, anyway.”

He grumpily adjusted his cloak and followed her lead. Why was it, he wondered, that no matter where they were, it was always Debora who did the
leading, Debora who made the decisions? It didn’t matter, though. Perhaps he never got a chance to lead himself, but at least he could always be
secure in the knowledge that whatever Debora wanted, Debora would manage to get.

It was thus a great surprise that at the end of the meeting, Wynd found himself apprenticed to the village wizard.

“I thought you said I was your apprentice,” he whined. It was all her fault. She had led him on, as usual. He should have stood up for himself.

“Shut up. At least you’re not a farmer’s hand.” Her highly domed brow was creased with thought.

“But Udell? I don’t like him. He scares me.”

“So? So do I. It can’t be that bad, Wynd. Just put up with it. Actually, I think this is a good opportunity for you. You have the right mind for the
work. He must have seen it.”

“But I can’t read!” There. The terrible secret had been spoken, and he was sure that there were spirits in the air that could hear him and whisper his words into every villager’s ear. Not all the members of the village could read – what need had a farmer of books and writing? – but the skilled
villages all could, and certainly a magical apprentice was expected to read books. Too scrawny to work in the fields, too stupid to cast spells or interpret the ancient laws, he was useless, useless… “I’ll never be able to get the spells – ”

“I’ll help you. I’ve picked up a few basic skills myself. Just tell me what you’re doing and I’ll help you memorize it.”

He stared at her. Horror grew inside him. “How – where – ” Women were not allowed to study magic or law; their minds were not to be trusted. They
were weak, it was said, and simple, and lascivious. Teach a woman magic, and she will ensnare the village for her pleasure.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone – even mention it again – so help me, you’ll regret it the rest of your life – ” She grabbed him by the
scruff of his tunic, and glared at him. Too shocked to look away, he saw that her eyes were filled with even more terror than his own were. He began
to shake. This was not allowed. His sister could not be frightened, not ever.

“If they find out you’re a – a witch – ”

“I said shut up. Do you understand me?”


“Do we have a deal?”

He nodded dizzily. “Yes.”

“All right then. Good.” She let him down, then put an arm around his shoulder. It was one of the few outward displays of affection that she had ever shown him. “I don’t mean to hurt you,” she said in an oddly shaky voice. “It’s just that I know so much, I’m afraid it will hurt you too.
It’s been so hard – ” Her eyes fell on something shining on the ground.

“What’s that?”

Debora picked it up and spat on it to remove the clay. “It looks like a cloak pin.” Her fingers traced over engraved figures, until they found the
irregularly shaped crystal that lay in the centre. More spit showed that the crystal was an odd sapphire colour.

“What do these markings mean?”

“I have no idea.” She balanced it in her right hand – her hand of power – for a few seconds, then solemnly handed it to him. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
She stroked her tingling palm briefly with her fingers. “Don’t lose track of it, either. The thing’s worth a king’s ransom.”

“I won’t.” He began to put it in his pocket, but she stopped him.

“Your trouser pocket’s too small. The pin will fall out if you move any faster than a snail’s pace. Here, let me fasten it to your cloak.” He
allowed her to touch his light summer cape, squirming a little as she brushed his sensitive skin with the pin’s point. “There. I won’t prick you.
How do you like your family heirloom?”

He smiled slowly, mysteriously. Here was a new secret for him to keep. The day had been full of many terrible secrets, and he would learn much in
time. “I like it right fine,” he said.


Wynd need not have worried about embarrassing himself in front of Udell. Udell never asked him to read anything out of his spell-book. Udell never asked him to do anything more magical than fetching and carrying, and doing other menial household chores.

“You don’t need me, you need a wife,” Wynd complained one day when he was feeling particularly brave.

Udell nearly knocked him to the floor. The blow to his jaw left his head reeling. “Be grateful I was willing to take you, runt,” he growled. “No
farmer would look at you, and no half-sane crafter would want what you offer in brains.”

As Udell left the room, Wynd remained where he was, staring at the deserted space of air as if it might attack him again.


A year passed, and a miracle occurred. Udell became ill.

“Get your wild bitch of a sister over here,” he moaned from his bed. “I think I’m dying.” Just then a spasm racked his face, and he staggered to
the privy as if mortally wounded.

When Debora was able to spare time to visit the ailing wizard, she his a smile and inspected him with the utmost of detached concern. “You have
contracted a disease,” she pronounced solemnly. “It is not fatal, but it will keep you bent over for about a month. I will have to treat it every
day to make sure your condition does not worsen. You will need to drink much water, to replenish what you have lost. I suggest that in the future,
you boil your water before you drink it.”

Udell moaned.

“Just be glad your constitution is as strong as it is,” she said, and forced a vile-smelling brew down his throat. “Here. This will make you a little faint, but that is its way of working.”

After a half hearted grumble, Udell fell into a heavy slumber. Soon the sound of his snores filled the room.

“What on earth did you give him?” Wynd asked, with an incredulous gasp.

“Oh, just a little something to make him sleep, nothing dangerous. Thank the gods it’s quick. I thought he would never shut up. Why is it that all
men are martyrs when they’re sick?”

“Debora – ”

“At least I have an excuse now to start training you. We’ll have to teach you to read, I’m afraid, but that can wait.”

“You mean he’s not deathly ill?”

Debora laughed. “Wynd, your master has a two-day gut flusher that will be over before he knows it. I’m just keeping him too doped up to know it,
that’s all.”

“That’s dishonest,” he protested.

“Would you rather be a slave for the rest of your life?”

He sighed. “I suppose not.”

“Then let me have my way. I know what I am doing. Now, every afternoon right after dinner, I will come over. This stuff will have him sleeping like a baby the whole afternoon, so we’ll have plenty of time to ourselves.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

She grunted. “Yes. It’s dangerous. It’s very addictive and his tolerance will increase steadily. After the first few weeks he won’t even be sleepy.
The powder I used was never meant to be used over a long period of time. I will have to keep increasing the dose, which could have unwanted effects.
Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. He didn’t care for Udell, but he didn’t want to be blamed if something should go wrong. “What about my lessons?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she cried. “Honestly, Wynd, do you have to have such a single mind?” Her voice trailed off. “I’ve been
having problems of my own. I heard through a friend in another village that the northerners are going to raid us.”

“Oh, that’s just a rumour.”

“Rumours sometimes come true. I have more to lose than you do. No. Scratch that. Do you still have your pin?”

He patted a fold of his cloak. “Of course.”

“All right. Well, we’ve wasted half an hour. Let’s get to work.”


Time passed, and the afternoons ran on, swift and unceasing. Debora had been right about the early spells – they were so basic as to be practically
common knowledge, and so he had no problems memorizing them. However, in a few days, there was nothing left in the book of common spells for him to whip through. There was only the huge volume of assorted arcana and history that Udell kept on the podium in the corner of his workroom, and it sat in front of him tauntingly, daring him to try and fail. Memorization was no good here. The first spell he attempted from Udell’s book was so complex that he bungled it almost from the start.

“It’s no good,” Debora stated flatly. “Udell will have to teach you to read. Actually, if you can read on your own, you won’t need me. Do you think you can learn the runes by the time the moon is full?”


“Good. I knew you could do it. We’ll start with the ancient myths. urn to the third chapter of the book of arcana – it’s this page right here…”

And so the torture began. One week flowed uneventfully into the next. Life was as full of boredom and restlessness as it had ever been. When he was not struggling to pin down the runes Debora forced him to memorize (they
tended to cavort all over the page, and often performed acrobatic feats as well, standing on their heads and turning backwards and forwards when his head was turned away) he was busy trying to keep out of Udell’s path.

As time wore on, Debora put ever larger amounts of the powder into Udell’s drink. e often did not fall completely asleep, but would simply drowse off
only to be jolted awake by the slightest noise. He was also increasingly irritable from one day to the next. Debora said that this was a sign that
he was growing dependent on the powder – the crankiness occurred when Udell’s blood began to miss the sleeping draught. Wynd’s body, once a pale and uniform milk-white, was now covered with deep purple bruises and livid red welts.

One spring night Wynd awakened with a start. Perhaps he’d been having a nightmare. He wasn’t quite sure. Unease made him pace the length of the room. she glanced out the window at the moonlit furrows, he thought he saw something running past, and he decided that his eyes were playing tricks on him. No. Wait. He distinctly saw a person just outside the cottage, furtively looking backwards over his shoulder. Or was the shape that of a woman? He couldn’t be sure. As the figure turned back, perhaps to make positively certain that it was not being followed, the pale colourless
moonlight fell upon its face, exposing its features. He gasped. The figure was Debora. He almost called out to her, but some prudent instinct held him back, and she escaped into the night.

He heard the cottage door creak shut. Udell had been up, then. Wynd leapt into his cot and feigned sleep. Real sleep did not return to him that night.

The next day, Udell approached him and motioned him aside.

“Master, what is it? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? I still have to milk the other cow – ”

The old wizard took the spell-book down from its supposedly hidden resting place and handed it to Wynd. “This is for you. I have decided that you are
ready to begin your lessons.” He made no further comment or explanation.

Wynd stifled a facial movement. It would not be good to question the gods, for they were the type who took more often than they gave. “Yes, master.
Thank you, master,” he said, and with a nod of the head he scuttled past and returned to the barn.


It was a drought season. Usually the summer air was filled with the sound of crackling thunder, and the fields ran with oozing mud – but this time no
rain fell from the sky, and not a cloud relieved the eye from the vast expanse of coppery blue. The irrigation was not good enough to provide
nourishment for the stunted plants that forced their way up through the dry, caked earth. Even Udell’s sorcery was not strong enough to support the
new life.

“I reckon we’ll have to give a pig to the gods pretty soon,” one of Udell’s field hands muttered, whose name was Skept.

“It’ll be more than livestock they’ll want,” the old man next to him, whose name was Jarl, muttered.

“We haven’t had the drought so long as that,” kept muttered, thinking of his young child.

“Well, the last person’s blood was spilled was sixth born, anyway. Nobody would sacrifice someone really important. That’s like cutting off your
right hand.”

“Isn’t that the point? And there haven’t been many children born these past few years.”

“Well, it will still be dead wood they cut off, that’s certain. Maybe some old hag.” Then Jarl’s tongue froze, when he realized that his own hair had
gone white many years ago, and as for his wife…”Or maybe a cripple. I hear Ren had a two headed calf born last night. Maybe they’ll take that.”

“Maybe,” Skept replied, with an amount of false relief and hope equal to that of his partner in the fields. There had been a birthing in the
household too the other night, only it had been done by his wife, and the result had been a shrivelled whitish-blue thing that gave out one feeble cry and then died without so much as a struggle. He chuckled grimly.
“Actually, if it’s dead wood they want, why don’t they cut young Wynd’s throat? He certainly does little enough.”

Jarl snorted. “Aye, sure enough, but what does Udell do? He can’t save any crops either. Why not offer him, instead?”

“He runs half the village. That’s why.”

“Oh? No more? That’s nothing. Who runs the other half?”

“The rest of the council – oh, never mind. He doesn’t really own half the village. He owns all of it.”

“Shut up. He’s coming.”


As the village died, it let out a stream of curses – first at the gods who had waged war on it, then on itself. Then a miracle occurred that breathed
new life into the tiny cluster of farms. A bitter old woman died. Bria, who had been part of the community as long as anyone could remember, loved no one and hated those she did not love. What she could not do for herself no one else could do, and frequently they failed because it was part of a conspiracy against her. Naturally, since she could not revive her failed heart, neither could Debora, and when Debora put her hands on Bria’s
breast, the old hag cursed her and died.

The village muttered at this new misfortune. Debora was odd. She thought too much, travelled too much, and laughed at the old ways. Furthermore, she had never learned that a woman’s place was in the home, serving a husband, and even if she had decided to let someone competent be the village healer instead of her, no man would have wanted her. She was no more subservient or polite than an uppity house cat. No doubt she practiced witchcraft, too.
After all, a woman who dressed and acted like a man could certainly try things only permitted to men, couldn’t she? Everyone knew that a woman
could never dabble in magic without turning to its evil side. That was why they were forbidden to ever learn to read the runes. Trouble always brewed
when a crazy woman thought that she could live without a strong man to take care of her. Perhaps this Debora had been the cause of all the misfortune that had befallen them – it would be just like her to destroy a whole community and abuse the good earth it borrowed just to test her powers.

Perhaps there was redemption for the village after all.

The elders – all but Debora, of course – consulted. Here was a way to please a village, to get rid of a misfit, while pleasing the gods. The earth had provided its sacrifice already. Satisfied with the simplicity of their solution, they acted immediately, and seized Debora when she was working in the fields.

Wynd heard a cry and glanced out the window of the cottage. Udell looked up coldly.

“Get back to your lessons,” he said.

“But – ”

“Do not cross an elder, Wynd. There are others far wiser than you. that is why wise men, and not arrogant young boys, make all the decisions in this

“Yes, master.”

He had very little sleep that night. Udell’s cottage was across the commons, right next to the meeting house. The strange noises coming from
that building made him disinclined to sleep.

On the next morning, the elders held Debora’s trial, and all the villagers eagerly came forth to watch it. Entertainment like that did not come very
often. Wynd, too, was there. He had wanted to stay home in protest, but he figured that Debora needed all the moral support she could get. Besides, he did not want to throw suspicion on himself as well. Although he had been the last one to arrive in the meeting house, the elders had reserved a place for him in the front row of benches.

“I hope they get this over with,” the man next to him said. “It’s downright suffocating in here.”

Wynd grunted and opened his mouth, but one of the elders banged his staff three times on the hard wooden floor, and a deadly silence fell on the
room. “Debora, you are accused of witchcraft,” the head elder growled angrily. Damn these young, he thought, this is what happens when they think
they know everything. They think they have the powers of the gods on their side… However, he quickly chastised himself for generalizing so viciously.
He had a son of his own, after all, who never complained when things got hard, who was always helpful and good-natured – a true blessing to him, his family, and the village. Poison plants such as this fiery she-devil only sprouted up when their parents did not raise them right. And how could she have been raised right, who knew no mother and whose father died when she was barely of age? He felt a flash of gratitude that his own offspring had all turned out so well, reflecting their upbringing.

Debora fought desperately, hopelessly. “I suppose Udell is criminal, also,” she spat. “Put him on trial also, and torture him the way you tortured me.
You are a council of hypocrites.”

“Silence, woman!”

“I practice no black magic,” she screamed. “You accuse me wrongly, for the sake of your own convenience. I am no evil sorceress – ”

“That is for Udell to decide. Let him testify.”

Wynd’s blood ran cold.

Udell stood up and took his place, smiling with smug satisfaction. Wynd tried not to feel that Udell was leering at him, and stifled an impulse to
tear out the old wizard’s eyeballs.

“Speak your piece, Udell.”

“I have little to say. All I know is that this temptress cast a spell over me and seduced me, so that would grant her any request, even that I would teach her imbecile brother the basic spells – ”

“Liar!” Debora cried. Her unkempt black hair, splayed out in all directions, gave her the appearance of an angry cat. “My wishes had nothing to do with it,” she said slowly, with forced coldness, “you filthy, hideous spawn of a – ”

“Silence,” the judge snapped, “it is you, and not Udell, who is on trial. I suggest you act like the woman you are if you want a favourable judgment.
Insulting the wizard of the village would not go well on your extensive record of offenses if you were found guilty.”

“Let Wynd testify,” the other elder said flatly. The heat was beginning to get to him, too. So was Udell. The wizard was making him nervous. Why did there always have to be complications in a case that was supposed to be simple and straightforward? The witch-woman’s reaction to Udell had been honest, unfortunately. That meant that the hearing would drag on. He wanted
to get back to his fields. What he wouldn’t do for some honest soil, a hoe, and an unexpected rain. “Udell, you may step down.”

Wynd froze, but the people next to him half pushed, half dragged him forward. The judge began his questioning.

“Wynd, were you ever aware that your sister practiced witchcraft?”

“I – no – look, that’s an unfair question. It’s loaded.”

“So it is. Is your sister Debora a witch?”

“She never practiced black magic.”

“So you do not deny that she is a witch?”

Wynd sighed and looked at his sister, who was leaning against the rough wooden table. If he lied, it would be obvious – he was never a good liar –
and he might be condemned to suffer her fate. Her eyes closed now, despairing.

“I do not deny it.”

The chief elder sighed with relief. The issue that Udell had inadvertently raised would no longer be important. He took his foot and drove it down on
the staff of justice, breaking it in two to signify that he had found Debora guilty.

Debora leaned her head backward, savouring her numb exhaustion. Nothing mattered anymore, not even the raw places where her tunic chafed her skin.

The judge pointed the two broken pieces of his staff in the air, reaching for the sun. “Since you have been found a witch, Debora, we sentence you to
death by fire. At high noon today you will be tied to the stake. Meanwhile you are to stay here in full view of the rest of the village, as an example
to any woman who wishes to defy the laws of nature. May the gods be appeased. Open your smock.”

“No. I refuse.”

“Will you have us do it for you instead?”

“Bastards,” she muttered, as Udell and the chief elder began to move toward her. Slowly, she fumbled with the strings on her tunic. Her motions became more and more violent as her humiliation increased, and she accidentally broke a string. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the elders bring forward a large wicked-looking iron instrument. A hot flash of red burned at the tip. She moaned and backed away, struggling, but a handful of eager spectators pushed her back. One elder held her rigidly still as her judge rent her tunic. The red hot brand moved closer to her,
and she caught a scream between her teeth as searing fire violated her left breast. She did not want to give the elders the satisfaction of hearing her admit to pain. Damn them, she thought fiercely as the white blindness extended seemingly into eternity, damn them, damn them, damn them, damn them. A few tears managed to escape anyway, and she cursed them as desperately as she cursed the elders. Blood stained her palms where her nails bit her flesh. At length the world came back into focus, and the crowd drew back. They wanted to see the mark from a distance. The heat had become unbearable.

Wynd saw the marks of torture on his sister’s body, then hid his face. Some people behind him were speculating on whether Debora would be able to stand up for four hours. One of them bet his pig that she would collapse – after all, she was a woman, and a sorely abused one at that, even if she had asked for it.

“I’m sorry, son,” the man next to Wynd said kindly. “I know this must be hard for you.”

Wynd muttered something unintelligible and fought tears. If Debora was strong enough to fight them, wasn’t he?

The speculator lost his pig. Debora might have had a fragile appearance, but she also had a considerable amount of grit.

The sun reached its zenith, and the crowd half marched, half carried Debora outside. The elders thrust her onto a tall pyre. She fought them with what strength she had left when they tied her to the stake that thrust itself out of the mass of sticks, but she was outnumbered and easily subdued.
Udell took a watchglass from his robe and angled it toward the sun. A small angry flame appeared on one of the branches. Those people in front of the
crowd could see that the witch was now muttering something, a curse perhaps. They looked about nervously, making signs against the evil eye.

Blindly, methodically, the flame worked its way of destruction, gathering strength as it went. The firey mass approached her. a wall of smoke breathed in her face, forcing her to choke as she swallowed it. The air turned thick and oppressive; heat waves distorted the air, swaying back and forth like a line of charmed snakes.

A voice cried out from the background, “The gods are pleased! See! they send clouds of rain!”

Through the barrier of heat, Wynd saw the first flame reach his sister. He screamed in sympathy, but he caught himself moments later. He did not want to join her. She would want him to remain alive. Surely that was why she had summoned the clouds.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remain silent. A gust of wind fired a furnace blast of air at him. He closed her screams of surrender off
the way he closed off the first clap of thunder, building a fortification between her death and his life. Tears ran down his cheeks as knowledge
attacked him; then he closed his tears off permanently. Coldly and dispassionately, he watched his sister burn.

By grandpoobah

Indeed there will be time
For a hundred visions and revisions...

T.S. Eliot

My poetry is archived at - please give it a look.


  1. oh no. you don’t write like that and just leave me hanging!!!!!! more, more, MORE!!!

Comments are closed.