The Lark
Published in

The Lark

Blood Lines

Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash

“Cognac?”

“You know why I am here,” the Baron said, abruptly ignoring Felini’s offer. He placed his hat and cane upon a delicate table beside the drawing-room door, hovering with his right hand for a moment in case either should fall to the floor. The hand trembled.

“A drink, man,” Felini demanded. “Join me!” He was always so flamboyant — his clothes, his manner. “You must be frozen from the carriage” he beamed…

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The Lark shares fictional short stories and poetry

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Merton Barracks

Merton Barracks

I'm meandering. Some fiction and some rantings with an intermingling of the things that keep me going, slow me down or make me cry.

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