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No See Ums No Hear Ums

She lay in the ash grove.

Cold bitter winds and wet clumps of clay. Behind the iron gates of a long forgotten estate. She'd lain three summers long. The wildflowers grew no more. Too much violence had visited this mantle of the grove. Some say love. Some say t'were lust. Violent. Thrusty. Loins throbbing with heat. Seeking. Nudging. Taking what was his.

Roland, who worked in the Palace Theatre, knew all about those girls. Eastern European, they say. And all that was left was a short round toenail. Not a smidgen of varnish on those toes. Just the dank sewage retching up body parts. First a knuckle, then an ear. Some say they never heard a word. A wail. They closed the Palace soon after. And Roland? Well Roland moved on. Somewhere north they say. To the wild country. Somewhere the Eastern Europeans last settled. So they say.

Story by:

Mari Maxwell

18 December 2017