Mytwosentences 202 (Dying To Know 25)

Thousands of kilometers away, a solitary woman, clad in isle simplicity, felt, smelled, and harvested the opulent vegetation of her self-sustaining fortress in the deadly North Atlantic; known to all, including those no longer with us, as Brigadoon.

Here, Allie, with reddening nose adrip and crusty right arm in need of medical attention, moved inspectively closer to the carved ‘shill d19’ on the massive table… that’s when she became aware of something odd, a warm air current was blowing on the back of her legs.

(Written by Edward Roads)

Mytwosentences 199

After she was laid off from the crab cannery and unable to sleep an English wink, Laura, nude and shadowy, made her way to the filthy front window of the second floor flat she rented from a fat, boisterous woman named Viv.

Looking over the broad thicket, and now wrapped in a soiled comforter she would never, ever touch otherwise, Laura contemplated the sketchy path she took to this point; and decided to be better than the grainy, blank stare she gave more than one hundred eighty years ago in London’s first known photograph.

(Written by Edward Roads)

(Photo by Edward Roads)

Mytwosentences 197 (Dying To Know 21)

As she carefully approached the enormous, oaken table, Allie’s vacant acceptance of what was unfolding around her started to bend, like a forgotten aqueduct that began to receive dribs and drabs of fresh water.

She hadn’t an earnest thought, or a simple memory recall, about where she came from or why she was there… only that her name was Allie and someone or something had made her bleed.

(Written by Edward Roads)

Mytwosentences 194 (Dying To Know 18)

There were moments, brief indeed, perhaps better described as pauses, where unremarkable events that took place during the course of a given day seemed to subliminally disengage; as if the air, in all it’s capacities and nuances, suddenly got quiet.

Those were the thoughts that seeped into Allie Carraig’s unsteady mind when her regard for the bloody syringe abruptly dissevered… and she noticed something absolutely terrifying.

(Written by Edward Roads)

Mytwosentences 192 (Dying To Know 16)

Should curious souls be brave enough to approach this very small place, said souls would inevitably fall prey to a petulant portion of the Atlantic that callously reduces any craft to an unpredictable skiff of temerity.

Before their imminent demise was at hand, seafarers might glimpse an overwhelming radiance undulating betwixt the formidable spires…the island’s majestic breath.

(Written by Edward Roads)

Mytwosentences 187 (Dying To Know 11)

Her milky white midriff was thinly drawn, ribby, perhaps even emaciated… but Allie Carraig was experiencing a physical and introspective resurgence of soul, that in all likelihood would unshade the mystic margin between life and death.

As a black and comfortless sky was developing over Dock 19, actually a wasteland tagged Dock 19, the encroaching mass, now more amoeba than hominid, drifted up to the very tip of Allie’s nose.

(Written by Edward Roads)

Mytwosentences 181 (Dying To Know 5)

“Mam, you need to have your papers ready, and please, if you don’t mind, remove your hand from my table.”

Allie, who was noticeably ripe and well past exhausted, slammed her other hand down and clamored, “Help me, for christ sake, please”… then her bloodshot blues rolled up to all white, and she collapsed.

(Photo: Edward Roads)

Written by Edward Roads

Mytwosentences 180 (Dying To Know 4)

Shill, the loyal man who worked this seaside immigration seat for more than 30 years as part of what you might call a welcoming committee, looked at yet another girl, with another story, with another…

“Hi, my name is Allie… I just got off that rickety damned boat and I need someone to show me a quiet place where I can think.”

(Photo: Edward Roads)

Written by Edward Roads

Mytwosentences 177 (Dying To Know 1)

She arrived at the shores of her last chance, after what local papers would one day describe as ‘the unknowing victim of a deep sea and dead run’.

The pier was lonely at Dock 19, her child, who she would never see again, lay lifeless somewhere back in Ireland as wretched memories misted New York Harbor.

(Photo: Edward Roads)

Written by Edward Roads