Something pale, elevated on a wet stone, caught his eye not far ahead, and Keith slowed his pace to a casual amble. He knew the slender outline and the scent, even over the salt-rich, half-rotten scent of the sea. He stood upright as he came forward, wolf melding into man, the stones that were nothing under callused pads now sharp on bare feet.
The woman in the white gown watched him amusedly, seeming impervious to the cold wind that pinned the cloth against her wiry body and raised her coarse grey hair like a ragged banner. He wasn't surprised.
He didn't feel the cold either. "Fionnghuala."
"Keith," she said, and slithered down off her rocky perch with a smile and an outstretched hand, unfazed by his nakedness. He caught it, a steadying grasp she did not need, and squeezed her long fingers lightly. Her skin was almost as translucent as silk in the moonlight, and the bones underneath it delicate as reed flutes. She winced when her bare feet touched the stones. "Welcome home. Where have you been?"
The funny thing is, I know exactly who she is and what she's doing in this story. I apparently have far too much mythology stocked away in the back of my brain, and it bubbles up when I am not looking, like the things that bubble out of septic tanks into the leaching field of literature.
Also, I have a fever. And my neck and ear really hurt. These things may not be unrelated to my sudden bursts of weird creativity.
101 Opinions on Writing
Congratulations to colomon and his lovely, Jen!
Anybody remember the dust bowl? Has anybody noticed the severity of the current drought out West? Is anybody doing anything about it?
They're making it worse!