Confessions Of An English Opium-eater Novels & Stories

I’m nobody. The answer was food. It was comforting, and it was warm, and it was delicious. It was easy to buy, to hide, to consume. It was like a friend, and she needed a friend, badly. But like a frenemy, it had turned on her – made her lazy and weak, made her fat and disgusting and eighty-five pounds heavier than she’d been when dancing. So, much like a toxic friend, it had had to go.

“I’m serious. Yesterday’s soup made me feel alive.” “Yesterday’s soup gave you gas.” “That was a powerful experience.” Mr. Yellow, my talking rabbit-butler-parole-officer-slash-resident food snob, hopped onto the counter with an exaggerated sigh. “Darling, I’m begging you. Can we please cook something that isn’t sadness and oregano?” I flicked a pea at him. He caught it mid-air. Show-off. “I read in a gossip column once,” I muttered, “that this man—” I jabbed a ladle in Edric’s direction, “—eats imported flame-roasted phoenix eggs and filet mignon that costs more than my entire childhood.”

I told him. He shifted the chair with his knee and sank into it sideways so we could press together, my legs over his, our daughter between us. He smelled like soap over steel. Under my palm, his chest was a drum, not fast, not slow—just sure. I let my head rest there and felt the tension unwind a notch. “Tell me something ordinary,” I said. He smiled into my hair. “Henry can’t hammer without swearing in three languages.” “That’s not ordinary. That’s Henry.”

he added absent mindedly, concentrating on the road he was driving through. " We're in the same boat then!! You're so correct, her presence makes my insides gnarl. Do you know the time she went to eat cakes last night? It was around midnight and then I overheard her saying that she hadn't eaten the whole day and had awoken at that time to eat. Who does that? She's so careless not just with herself but her health. I get that she is pretty. No, she isn't pretty in my eyes and will never be. She might look pretty in the eyes of others but she doesn't in mine. If she keeps up with her ugly eating habits, she might become a bald and wretched old woman even before she ages" " Isn't it obvious that

beside me. I found this yesterday when I went out to get something ” she said and showed me front of the book which was written on it ” MAGIC AND POWERS ( how to control them ) “. ” I found something about a confessor inside ” she said and dropped the book on the bed. ” What about confessor ?” I asked. ” Well according to the book, they’re ancient order of women sworn to find the truth no matter how people may try to hide it ” she said. ” Does that mean I’m ancient? ” I asked and she burst into laughter. ” Alaina you’re funny ” she said and laughed again. I sighed and looked away from her. ” Apart from the ancient stuff what other things do confessor’s do, like what’s their ability and what

“Wait, are you telling me confession is good for the soul? Isn’t that what the other lot say?” “The papists you mean? You think we Anglicans are all about repression and keeping it bottled up? No, lad, I’ve heard as many confessions as the unmarried men in frocks, I can tell you.” Jim smiled at Father Powers’ depiction of Catholic priests. The old man held up a tartan thermos. “Will you join me for a coffee? It has a little something extra in it, if you catch my drift.” Father Powers was fond of his brandy. Jim nodded and followed the old man to the nearest bench.