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

by Sextus Verne

   Waiting alone in the humble comfort of old Emily’s hovel, with the almost tenebrous scent of almond blossoms and frangipani wafting in from outside, the softly-sobbing Archibald thought once more of young Harold, the brilliant scholar who had wanted to make her his life’s work. He was now, according to Brother Lyle, marooned by his own crew on the Isle of Retribution.
   At long last came a confused chorus of greetings from the courtyard, and she gasped. He was here! “There’s only ever been you, my perfect little carrot!” he intoned.
   Abruptly, there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling, and as it dawned on her that her days of loneliness were over, she took a moment to plan some of the details of their pre-nuptial agreement.

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