Winter. London. 1832. Thimble was a guttersnipe on Birdcage Lane.  The spectral faces of her and other street urchins could be seen at dusk, seeking shelter, huddling together for warmth. Later, the chorus of drunken patrons of ale houses and brothels would be their good night lullabies. Inertia from the cold, unbroken, allowed frost to accompany many of the children down crow’s mile. Thimble knew you had to brawl with sleep, brawl with death on the bitterest nights. It served her younger sister, Button, no good if the crow’s got Thimble first.

A thumb-nail sketch for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle 123. Always wanted to use the word guttersnipe! Thanks Yves.

My frilly freudian slip is the collaboration of phylor and adh [a darkened house] as two parts of one personae move back in together. Sounds like the plot for a sit com. Please stop by the café, share a story, read a poem, have a refreshment. Choose to stay or no. At my frilly’s, it’s an evolution.

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