They have their own religion, them across the causeway…
LIZZY STONE loves her little Cornish island. She rises with the sun and she dances with the moon. She dives with the gannets and bathes with the seals. Her worship is hot and red.
THE DEVIL covets Lizzy’s home. He wants nothing more than its consumption, its integration into His calculating, mechanical designs. His desire is synthetic and bottomless.
STORMS are living things. They hunger and they desire and they clamour to know what they are, what their purpose is, what they must do to make sense of it all. Their lives are so brief and so disappointing and so riotous.
BENEATH THE SOIL a Great Lady dwells. The virgin of compassion and the harlot of war. When the men fail, and sometimes they will, hope falls into the small and blue-stained hands of women.
There is no rest for the wicked.
—
Pagan remnant cults, sacred whores, sabbats, parades, fayres, Mayday bunting, bonfires and fire works. Pubs and stately homes. It’s the 1980s, so think indie rock, headphone cables snaking into walkmans, frizzy hair and eyeliner. Oh and there's an ending you're unlikely to forget.
Please read. Leave a review if you're moved to do so. Any of these links will work:
Or DM me for files. Or email contact@propitiation.press for a special* version made just for you.
Come beneath the soil. You know you want to.
—
* Special version is the same as the normal version, only I'll probably name the file after you or something to keep track. I feel like I've misled you with promises I can't deliver on. I was lost in the moment and I apologise.
LIZZY STONE loves her little Cornish island. She rises with the sun and she dances with the moon. She dives with the gannets and bathes with the seals. Her worship is hot and red.
THE DEVIL covets Lizzy’s home. He wants nothing more than its consumption, its integration into His calculating, mechanical designs. His desire is synthetic and bottomless.
STORMS are living things. They hunger and they desire and they clamour to know what they are, what their purpose is, what they must do to make sense of it all. Their lives are so brief and so disappointing and so riotous.
BENEATH THE SOIL a Great Lady dwells. The virgin of compassion and the harlot of war. When the men fail, and sometimes they will, hope falls into the small and blue-stained hands of women.
There is no rest for the wicked.
—
Pagan remnant cults, sacred whores, sabbats, parades, fayres, Mayday bunting, bonfires and fire works. Pubs and stately homes. It’s the 1980s, so think indie rock, headphone cables snaking into walkmans, frizzy hair and eyeliner. Oh and there's an ending you're unlikely to forget.
Please read. Leave a review if you're moved to do so. Any of these links will work:
https://www.netgalley.co.uk/catalog/b...
https://penpinery.com/P%20M%20Fox/the...
https://booksirens.com/book/EMWSH0O/V...
Or DM me for files. Or email contact@propitiation.press for a special* version made just for you.
Come beneath the soil. You know you want to.
—
* Special version is the same as the normal version, only I'll probably name the file after you or something to keep track. I feel like I've misled you with promises I can't deliver on. I was lost in the moment and I apologise.