“Shelly can think of more embarrassing ways to die, and she’s had more than enough time to enumerate them. But none that feel so ironic, nor as damning to her keenly-cultivated image as Badass of the South Pole Logistics Arch. And there is something worse than this certainty of dying head-down in a cardboard box of mil-spec ice cream: the understanding that whoever finds her body will, for the rest of their life, carry the burden of trying not to laugh out loud whenever asked to describe the circumstances of her death. Fortunately, she’ll be dead, and won’t have to endure the indignity.
Just please, let it be Melody, or Katherine who finds her. Anyone but Drew…” – Raiders of the Lost Triwall
Hemingway wrote “Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan.” Here then from Christchurch, which we left in the ashes of an earthquake six years ago, is a story about the South Pole.
Long-time readers will remember both Shelly and Drew. And I promise, faithful readers, that we’ve not seen the last of them. (For my more squeamish readers who worry about the awful things I tend to do to my characters, please do press on. It’ll be worth it.)
In the meantime, please enjoy Raiders of the Lost Triwall.
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