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Date Posted: 12:13:35 01/17/11 Mon
Author: celtgirl
Subject: Here's a fragment of something I'm still working on with Casey, it's brief partly because it's unfinished and partly because there is a major spoiler right after that last paragraph, so I'm not posting that. :)>>>>
In reply to: Elaine 's message, "It's really been cold here in my neck of the woods the last couple of weeks. I wonder how cold other places might be. For instance, parts of Russia and maybe that little magical island they call Ireland... And I have to wonder how our friends are faring during these winter months. 'Course only one person can reveal such secrets to us. Not that I'm trying to pry. Not really. Okay, so what if I am?!" on 13:05:43 01/16/11 Sun

copyright 2001 Cindy Brandner

There had been a summer that his father could not come out to the country with them and so they had gone alone, just he and his brother, himself fifteen at the time and Patrick, eleven. They had lived in an old cottage, stranded high on a mountainside, where the mist wrapped around them before the light left the sky, and didn’t clear off until late the next morning. They lived off the land that summer, snaring rabbits, occasionally stealing milk from the cow in the field at the foot of the mountain. Growing a wee garden themselves, because he had to -even then- plant something, nourish it, bring it to fullness.

They lived in perfect isolation, with the wind and rain, the sun and the stars, so close to the earth and the sky that they lost sense of being something separate from it. Thoughts there were huge, too big to be real, so you let them go with the clouds and the wind, and savoured the after of them sweet in your chest. They had read books by candlelight, told each other blood curdling stories and then regretted it until the dawn broke the dark of the night. They had talked about dreams, both those that were realistic and those that, even then, they understood weren’t likely to come true.

Women had been a theory, a dream that summer, not a reality- but something perfect and lovely and as transigent as angels and the scent of flowers in a meadow. They had talked about what they wanted in a girl, what they hoped for and what they thought the shape of their lives with such a woman might be. Truth be known he would have been happy with anyone halfway decent looking, under the age of thirty and over the age of fifteen that came equipped with breasts.

Now though he knows that women are like a road, beckoning a man on to somewhere grand, over the next hill to a horizon that may or may not exist, may or may not be a blessing. They are earth under a man's feet and sun thick as honey on his shoulders, but his woman is like the sea that she so loves, she is depths so deep he cannot find the ends of them, she is mystery and shifting light and soul restoring dark, she is always movement and change and sometimes he longs to drown in her, and sometimes he is terrified of doing just that.

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