And even then, when Ghost only wishes to surrender to exhaustion, oftentimes his mind is overtaken with a jumbling that resembles a “nightly circus…whose tent stretched across the flat, grassy pitch of his frontal lobe.”
I had developed an affection for him and just couldn’t go through with it, so I chose a different ending, which, as the writer, is my prerogative.
“I feel no longing….”
“Hireath” by Nicholas Mcgaughey is a fitting conclusion to our Celtic Issue. Thanks for reading!
Along the wall opposite the bed, my books had been stacked in a six-foot-high pile. The Ivory Tower. Other than the bed, the room’s only furniture was a small desk and a wooden chair. My lair.
They tapped a cask of sherry—cozy is as cozy does— in a command post near Brunete.
In a different mood he was, and sat alone drinking Bushmills and stout, mumblingto no point in particular.