Wheeling Gull Isle The Apocryphon of John

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"teachings of the Holy Father"!

and what did it mean, that this boy's mother had spoke of Bartholomew with "fondness"?

something inside of him curdled at those words, if only because he could see his reflection in Bartholomew, now.

as a boy standing at the bedside of his dying mother, the thought of parting had been unbearable. but now he knew that if God had called him to part ways with that sickbed, crusted with the detritus and the excretions of a body falling slowly, inexorably apart...

he would not cast a backwards glance.

and yet, this talk of a mother, and her fondness! he could not help but search for traces of familiarity in the boy's face, and he hated himself for it, hated himself even more for feeling relief in the wake of nonrecognition. he couldn't be Bartholomew's.

his mouth hardened into a line, but his voice remained soft as he spoke.

don't be sorry.

i didn't expect him to... a full-body sigh.

to be there.

the landmass hovered on the horizon. an aberration, a clot, a singularity fashioned out of the sedimentation of his own fears.

who lives on the island, now?

they did not seem to be friends.