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“It’s a daughter, My Lord. Do come in and give your regards.” Lord Merton’s sweaty hand entered the room first; his head, last. It took him a moment to locate the infant, only half-wrapped in her blanket, still smeared with dried blood, nearly concealed by a veil of the Lady’s hair. Every minute or so
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[EXT—Midsummer Eve, on the lawn of the manor. The ceremonial bonfire is set up but has not been lit yet. Fiddle music can be heard in the distance. CORINNA, dressed as Samson but still carrying her Folk Bag, ambles about, holding a glass of champagne.] CORINNA. How fortunate, that no one’s come looking for me
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When I was younger, I hated my Sealskin. I hated the clumsy fins that came with wearing it, hated the fog it cast over my mind. I hated my hatred for it because it was still a body part that I would rather not have lost. Mostly, I hated that I was born with a
Asyia Gover Poetry & Prose
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Asyia Gover Poetry & Prose 