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Gloomy Brine
“I’m writing a song,” she says.
“Excellent,” I say. “Everyone should do that. At least once.”
“You’re joshing,” she replies.
“Maybe,” I admit. “I probably won’t ever compose one. You gonna show me?”
That gets a smile. “I’ll sing it.”
“Warble away.”
“I’ve just started to write it. I might need help…”
“I’ll do what I can…like I said, not my cuppa tea…but have at it.”
She has a light voice, almost a chirp. She has been without a real home for months. What strength she must have to find her muse.I take a sip of my white wine.
A sweet grape, and rather fine.
It lifts me up from the gloomy brine.
…and I don’t have a good fourth line…”She finishes and sort of looks a little to the side.
“That’s funny. Maybe you do have a final line?”
“It’s only one verse. A song needs more than that.
“Who says? I ask.
“The song bosses. Every song ever written.”
“Well. Let’s find one. Do you have it written down?”
She passes me a piece of crumpled paper. I give some thought to it.
“The gloomy brine,” I say. “Evocative. And where are we?
“Here,” she says. “Waiting for a meal.”
“Hmm…how’s this?…and I sing her song…I take a sip of my white wine.
A sweet grape, and rather fine.
It lifts me up from the gloomy brine.
here with my friend in our bread line.That gets another smile from her.
I hand the paper back to her and she starts writing.
A few minutes later, she starts singing:I look skyward, see the sunshine,
my little joys, I’m on cloud nine,
imaginary fruit of the vine,
here with my friend, about to dine.“Pretty good,” I say. “Let’s go eat.”
298 words by Bill Engleson (@billmelaterplea)
Morrigan felt as though she could melt into the warm scented water of the magelit pool.
If only.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
The Unseelie swordswoman stood, allowing the water to run from her battle-tested but mystically unmarred body. Striding deliberately toward her attendants, her long raven hair floated behind her. It wasn’t Morrigan’s first choice, but if these people needed a merciless goddess to relieve them of their souls, she could be that goddess.
Her attendants toweled her reverently. True believers. She wished she could pity them, but there was only room in her hardened heart for one. The pain of that one kept Morrigan grounded. Focused.
Next came her robes. A local approximation of the garb she arrived in with a few embellishments as her legend grew. They also served as padding for her armor. Her armor. The dark fey accepted no substitutions there.
After sixty-nine years, it was time to return to The Green. Morrigan knew what she had to do. Erin wouldn’t understand. In some ways, the swordswoman was glad of that.
Once her armor was cinched into place, it was time for the obsidian crown. Morrigan smiled darkly at the irony. She never wanted this, but now she wore a crown not unlike that of the king she was betraying.
At last, Morrigan’s obsidian longsword was belted to her waist. She no longer needed weapons but still felt naked without a sword. Old habits. That and swords were just cool.
On her return, she would be branded a traitor and hunted. But she was returning at the head of an army. Also, she was now the most powerful being in all of Elementia.
If only there were some way to avoid fighting her Seelie sister.
The thought of hurting Erin broke Morrigan’s heart.
297 words by David A Ludwig (@DavidALudwig)
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