-
MAILBOX
I dinna ken exactly what a mailbox does, but, if'n ye want t'send me a letter, you can send it here. -
suffer no witch to live...
Ian Murray had never been a good waker, though he'd gotten better as he'd gotten older, his years among the Mohawk making waking easier. Still, in the hazy warmth of an island morning, Ian came awake slowly, with his arm around his wife and realised almost immediately that they were not alone. It wasn't a sight thing, his nose buried in Isolde's ( Read more... ) -
I left my baby lying here...
Ian Murray was gloriously drunk. Not gloriously...that was the wrong word. He was drunk so that he didn't think. He'd been sitting under the tree for a long time, far enough away that he wasn't torturing himself with her screaming, but the midwife had come now, her hands bloody but she'd been smiling too ( Read more... ) -
and the blood ran down (Halloween)
And he was terrifying, then. The sun was starting to come up as he made it back to the treehouse, Rollo trotting down the stairs to meet him like a shadow, like a ghost. He gave a low whine and Ian held out his hand, let him smell the blood and, underneath it, Ian, his master ( Read more... ) -
...on the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond
In six months of marriage, some things had easily become habit. Ian woke up without opening his eyes, rolling towards warmth across the bed and wrapping his arm around her middle and tugging her back against him. His hand automatically found the very slight bump of her through her shirt, stroking her and the baby as he burrowed into the long fair ( Read more... ) -
bring back, bring back oh, bring back my bonny
Ian woke up, half woke up and stretched one arm over his head squinting into the shaft of light that had crept into the treehouse around the shutter. It felt early yet, something about the quality of the light and, beside him, a familiar bundle of blankets was snoring. Ian dragged the light blanket back up to his shoulder, his hand skimming over ( Read more... ) -
For Hope
He was sitting outside the hut with his back against the wall, turning a carved wooden bird over in his hands. He hadn't felt right since Samhain, hadn't been able to clear the fog in his head, or the throb in his chest. More whisky hadn't helped. No whisky hadn't helped either. He'd doused the fire, and then he'd found himself without anything ( Read more... ) -
Angels and Angles (for Isolde)
He was sitting up the tree (the tree, not a tree), doing not a lot of anything. Rollo was asleep at the roots, and Ian was sitting on a low branch, one leg bent, one foot swinging. He was making something out of twisted wire. The barrel was safe down by the beach, hidden in the trees, for now, the fire was built and he'd done his best to calm ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
He didn't exactly have a reason for being up in that tree, so, when his foot slipped, it was entirely his own fault. He didn't exactly fall far, ten foot or so, but, because he was wearing his breaches, he ended up with two scraped knees and a bloody palm. He sat at the foot of the tree, cursing colourfully as Rollo took off into the trees, ( Read more... )