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Showing posts from April 5, 2014

Saturday's Storyteller: "All she wanted was to run her hands over the tall grass one last time."

by Belinda Roddie All she wanted was to run her hands over the tall grass one last time. As it were, however, there was no grass, and Orris's fingers, stark gray steel within her gloves, could feel no rough or wispy sensation of any bristle or blade of any hypothetical meadow. Instead, she stood along what used to be the Burren, now worn down thin and dark from the storm, the hostile Atlantic rising up to lick the heels of her boots with aggressive salt. It had been two years since the Last Crusade began. She had lost her hands in her last attempt to get rid of the Holy Men. They had been replaced, haphazardly, by one of the country's most brilliant surgeons until he was blown up in an old jeep heading toward the border. Now the Holy Men had control of Parliament, and the partially metallic women was left to wander, a war-tattered, terrorist-branded nomad in the last remnants of an old Ireland that was no longer green. New Ennis lay several kilometers away, the last

Today's OneWord: Stairway

The stairway seemed to go on for hours, but I couldn't help continuing to trek up the arduous steps. The air around me grew dryer and colder, and I tightened the collar of my jacket against my throat, feeling the fabric chafe against my stiff, reddening skin. Outside, I knew the sun was setting, and upstairs, the conference was convening. If I could only get to the sixteenth floor in time.