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So full of worth did the Spartans react to this lack of vim that they abandoned her on the mountains, before running off to avenge her death upon a neighbour and eat their children with no salt.


And the Spartans did fast for weeks and make vigorous war, and hurl the bloody children that fell down between their stony legs off outcrops, and all was thundery woe. But the little child could not throw javelin nor shotput nor discus nor 600-meter race could win, but was bad at sports.


THE WOEFUL TALE OF ALICE CICELY LORELEI ROSE, treasured twin of Edith.
O woe woe the wind and rain did BLOW and the sky's only light was with forks of death that did strike black and kill dead anyone that stood. And a STRANGER did pass a CHILD to the chilly grasp of the frog Baron von Woe.
And to SPARTA did he ride with nose too full of plots to sneeze, but itched, worsening the temper.


Ostrich and Edith were zigzagging on the surface of a glacier when they came across EDITH, dead in ice. Solemnly, hallowedly, the Ostrich with her motherly claw carved the story of Edith's long-lost long-dead twin sister into the ice.


And so Edith followed Mother Ostrich up into the mauve mountains and their multifarious crags to find Herr Grief. It was indeed a farlong and winding road to Grief; and the crags did swallow Edith's pinafore and 12 hairpins as penance for their traversal.
As the sun was low and pinkening the wide highup sky and the clouds corralled magenta and green was seen on the horizon and excessive colour washed throughout the bowl of the sky; and the ground did pinken too and the turquoise lichens of the ground did glow in the late afternoon; as all this colour did feast the 4 eyes of Mother Ostrich and Edith: they found GRIEF.


The sunlight was cool and yellow in the early afternoon. It dappled across buttercups and clover, accommodated calmly by the turf of the glade. A ladybird settled on Edith's shoulder, its presence undemanding. Edith ate her sandwiches. The rocking-chair was patient. It harboured an Ostrich. The Ostrich was doing an old crossword. Edith sniffled.


To Edith, galloping mournful through the chatter of the forest industries which outskirted the citadel, the cold silence of yonder mauve mountains seemed the only ambiance fitting to her grief. She tore through the woods, shredding her skirts, her tears ricocheting off the glassblowing clockwinding trees -- until she came to a soundless clearing.


Edith had fled her lessons by 8:30 that morning, after her semiotics teacher, a dragon named Pru, was slain by a lusty adventurer to avenge his sexual insecurities.

E.G. at the age of 14, she found the skeleton of her hitherto unknown twin in a glacier which enveloped her after she was ABANDONED BY SPARTANS on the slopes of a mountain.


Her father, however, was a sweetheart of Caligula, and Edith and her lupine sisters were educated classically, and thoroughly grounded in the thought of the pre-Socratics, the Vienna Circle, Foucault's Pendulum, Semiotics of Chaffinch, Electronic Engineering, the Pre-Raphaelites, Bicarbonate of Soda, Forensics and Whispering, Post-Fordism and Pi R Squared, the Vernacular Arhictecture of Moths, Existential Counting, the Flying Arrow Paradox, Plebian Metaphysics, How to Make Mustard in Difficult Circumstances, e.g. in a Tree, Duck-Rabbit, Real Numbers.
In reality, Edith spent little time in lessons, borne by the inexorable winds of tragedy on relentless far-flung misadventures.


-- despite being too heir to a disinterested kingdom to the east, which was anyway too busy with anarcho-syndicalism to notice or care.
After broadcasting her memoirs on the radio, her magnum opus, Tomfrey died.

The weeping Descartes took the day-old sickening snickering offspring of his drowned love to be wetnursed by a raven of the nearest citadel on a craggy heap of lost love, to say prayers to the soul of her mother.
The gravelly milk of her wet-nurse dried up when Edith was three, when the raven flew off to the Technological Institute of Wien to submit her thesis, depositing Edith on a passing wolf.

Edith was born in a riverbed to a minnow of ill repute who drowned herself the following morning. She drowned herself unaware that her long lost lover* would appear to her watery cadaver with liquor chocolates and chrysanthemums and a book of sonnets about a life in search of his lost and only love.
*Descartes: spurned by the minnow in a teenage conflagration of misjudgment in favour of a life in the service of God, which was lived for only an afternoon before the minnow absconded from the nunnery and eloped in a low dive.
Well, so, this is my webcomic. It's called Glowing Falling Over and it's this story I'm writing at the moment drawn out in pictures. I hope you think it's pretty and funny.
The pictures appear really small because I'm too ignorant/lazy to set up a proper website, but if you click on them it'll show you the whole big image.
xox