it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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The Perversity of the Novel Tends Toward A Maximum

Wordcount: 59 more on The Stratford Man but 880 words on the Kelpie book, A Glass of Rain, because I suddenly understood how it related both to The Stratford Man and also to Bridge of Blood & Iron, so I wrote the first bit of the first scene before it could get away. Which gives me a total for the day of 2,426. Not shabby. But I need to get more Will tomorrow.

Reason for stopping: Bed calls.

I'm addicted to Semisonic, and it's all Celia's fault. I know she feels terrible about this.

Nomail again today.

Said the mother: "Do not wrong me, don't take my daughter from me
For if you do I will torment you, and after death a ghost will haunt you
Love, fare thee well, with me tithery eye the doodelum the da
Me tithery eye the doodelum the da, Me rikes fall tour a laddie oh
There's whiskey in the jar. Hey!

Whiskey, you're the devil, you're leadin' me astray
Over hills and mountains and to Americae
You're sweeter, stronger, decenter, you're spunkier than tae
O whiskey, you're my darlin' drunk or sober

--Whiskey, You're the Devil (Irish Traditional)

Warmth slid from the piebald stallion's withers and flanks as he cantered into the grieving shade of a thousand willows. He was all but white, streaked with black in his mane and tail and spotted on his face and richly feathered feet. A rivulet as silver as his moon-shaped shoes led him deeper into the wood and higher upon the hills; he wrote in hoofprints on its verdant bank, a sentence that would tell any who cared to look, the Each-Uisge was here.

He could have passed without a mark. But this was a sacred place: hallowed ground. Sacred enough that when he came to the place where low hills tangled the willows' roots, he cantered to a halt and stood for a moment, tail stinging his flanks as he swiveled an ear to listen to something borne on that breeze.


A song.

The clip-clop of hooves would be sacrilege, then. Irritating, but the stallion drew a great bellows breath and folded into the angular form of a dark-skinned man, tugging his silk suit into place and reaching up to tip a hat at the right rakish angle. He was barefoot: silver rings glinted on his thumbs and each great toe.

Moving more silently than the breeze that rustled the lancelet leaves of the willows, the Each-Uisge chased the thread of song between graveyard trees, the living rememberers of a battle fought, and won.


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