Irene Rose Jones's Page

I woke in a fright, sweat beading my forehead. It was that dream again. That recurring dream of death and destruction. I looked at the clock, midnight. Time I was up. I raked the fire till the embers glowed, laying kindling and a slice of peat on top.

I lived deep down under Farmer O'Connell's chicken coop in a burrow. At first it was just going to be somewhere to sleep; somewhere…