by Billie Arthur (Author)

When will the sun kiss my shoulders? Or will my fear of flaying restrict and remand me to my cellar where all pining quietly perishes with not a fight or feeble cry? Yearn ever I for the tender licks of languid saltwater on my skin, longing only still for warm sand stuck to my sinews. So pleasant a dream and widely separate from the black treacle round my ankles, acting as shackles.