For your reading pleasure, Tempest presents yet another exquisite example of romantic narrative…

Inchoate Night
by Patience Jensen-Bohr, BS

   No; the softly-sobbing Marion was not pleased. Not at all! Neither the plaintive braying of the Don’s llamas nor the study, by the fiercely-staring portrait she so loathed impressed her, and it was all because he wasn’t there. Intellectually, she realized that Doctor Oliver, the flashing loving suitor she had turned so thoughtlessly away, had a full life in which he was starring in yet another film with Nelson Gödel, and he could not be expected to hold any consideration for the pleasure of one flashing, renewed girl. Intellectually, she knew this. And yet…
   Truly, it had been a most burning day when persistent rumours had brought him to her attention.
   Then, without any warning, a peal of mighty bells shattered her composure into a million tenebrous, silver pieces! She nearly swooned. Surely it could not be — but it was! At the door, the equine and masculine face she had come to know so well! “I worship you,” he husked while he dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief she herself had made for him. “I need you, Sweet Cheeks!”
   At long last as there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling, she knew that life without him was unthinkable, if not perilous, unconquered, unconquerable. Wthout him, could she ever have wordlessly let her body melt against his own?

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