Morning faded and the sky brightened into the rich hues of an early-rise orange, while the waves of fatigue washed over Cooper, drenching his bones in a weary contempt. His eyes stung from the light and his stomach panged for food, leaving him with a dizzying nausea. He considered nibbling while walking, but found himself cautious of onlookers and bystanders, so instead made an attempt to keep his basket hidden out of sight as he ventured further into the Apartheid District. He was nearing his destination; a momentary glimmer of joy as he yearned for his bed knowing that it was only a short distance away. His joy was short lived though, as in the distance coming towards him, Cooper could hear the drunken and boisterous ramblings of a group of men. They were just out of sight, hidden from the winding paths of the street – but they were close. Cooper could hear them more clearly now, and they
“Ah! Cooper, my dear,” Mariana said, “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Come in, quick, the air is nippy this morn’.” “Expecting trouble?” Cooper asked. “I’m expecting customers,” Mariana replied, giving one final glance outside before locking the door behind Cooper. Although he was no stranger to Mariana’s bakery, it never ceased to amaze Cooper the sheer methodical disarray of her shophouse. The main room was a long and narrow space, divided down the middle by an empty glass display. Bestrewn on the wall behind the display was an array of intricate gears, spinning and spurring in turn, coming together to form a series of mechanical clocks. Some were of wood, others of a reddish-brown metal, but no clock was the same and they each counted down at different intervals, ticking in a syncopated rhythm to create what sounded like an endless stream of marbles hitting a hardened floor. Suddenly, a jarring, high-pitch wail erupted from one of the clocks.
But nettles are not to be tolerated. They settled the question on which I had been turning my back for so long, and one fine August morning, when there seemed to be nothing in the garden but nettles, and it was hard to believe that we had ever been doing anything but carefully cultivating them in all their varieties, I walked into the Man of Wrath’s den. A Solitary Summer, Elizabeth Von Arnim Hiberia was a small but prosperous island nation. It’s city walls reached out to all corners of the coastal boundaries, and it stood firm. An enclave surrounded by the turbulent territories of boundless oceans. Many have ventured out into the blue abyss, searching for others like them – but none have ever returned with answers, or at all for that matter. The inhabitants of Hiberia do not worship any god. Instead, their philosophy promotes a deep veneration for the dead; specifically, towards a group of heroes who