Religion In Pirate's Wells (Short Story) Part 5c
“My man is dead Commish,” my voice soft, empty not even hateful, I don’t hate this man no more. This voice that comin’ out my throat is cold like the inside of a deep freeze, cold and hollow like the frozen hold of the freight boat that comes to the island twice a month. “He is dead, but he still my man.” I ain’t stop chopping yet. The blade in my hand still feel light as air and it still flashin’ sunlight off its edge, still spittin’ rock and fire every time it hit the ground. Murphy’s eyes... Sign in to see full entry.