MATTHEW 4:8-9
Sebastian called the corpse Eliot-Plath, a mixture of our middle names, as if he was family, our offspring perhaps, though Sebastian characterized him as an eccentric uncle, a Dickensian character of limited personality. Uncle Eliot-Plath complained of rheumatism. That was what he did. He blamed the weather (there was rain coming, thought Eliot-Plath) for making his bones ache.
"There is no rain, Uncle," Sebastian would tell him. "That’s just the rats gnawing at your knuckles."
We’re Here Because We’re Here is an episodic short story set in the trenches of the Great War. It’s got all the fun stuff: mud, gas, shellshock, friendly skeletons, crucified Canadians, and edible rosaries. You can purchase a PDF through my Gumroad store.
"What the hell did I just read" -Siegfried Sassoon
[Too busy shagging Keats in heaven to give a review] -Wilfred Owen
"Frankly, you should just read my books instead" -Pat Barker
I’ve really been enjoying relative-pronoun's little proses lately. Beautiful, unsettling, and full of bees.
