Copper and Stone

I started this story out intending it to be another "song" short, but it morphed into something else. I have some ideas for extending it to a novella or something, but for now here's a "prologue" style passage:

Harrick gazed down over the valley, seeing only thick haze where he knew his wife and home rested below. The fog usually burned off by midday this time of year, but Harrick didn’t know that yet. He muttered a curse to the gods for his poor luck and retreated into his recently acquired hovel. He cursed again to look at the place, a ramshackle hut with naught but three mudbrick walls and a thatched roof. The hardpack dirt floor didn’t inspire much confidence either.

Seeing little in the valley but fog, Harrick’s eyes turned to trace the rectangular outline of the low stone fence surrounding his new domain. With minor repairs it would serve nicely as a pasture for his town’s herd of scraggly goats. The more daunting challenge would be to provide an acceptable domicile for Lysara and the little ones. For now, the only structure on the large grassy expanse - heretofore to be called Harrickstead, he decided  - would have to do for him and the wiry dusty-blonde boy sleeping in the corner.

Cosmic Love

This is the continuation of “The Wind Cries Mary”, a short story you can find here. This part is inspired by the song “Cosmic Love” by Florence + The Machine.

            The eerily vacant streets marched past one by one as Mary guided their car east towards her father’s house. That had been an easy decision, hardly a decision at all actually. At mom’s there would be too many questions. Every so often she’d glance into the mirror and catch a quick glimpse of her reflection, her eyes flitting away when she saw the hardened look of determination still clutching to her flushed cheeks.

            At this hour, only the occasional traffic light impeded her progress. Eventually she made it onto the interstate, joining the sparse group of travelers headed for JFK and graveyard shifters skittering to work. The trip out to Islip usually took forever, but this night she managed to arrive so fast she never got around to turning on the radio. She parked on the driveway behind Judy’s latest BMW truck and sat motionless, wondering which one of them would freak out more at her unannounced 5am visit: her father or her father’s trophy.

            As a concession, she walked around the house to the backyard to wait for them to at least wake up on their own. The snow here hadn’t yet accumulated, so the side-yard fence swung open easily enough, groaning meagerly in rusty middle age. It was still bitterly cold, though the air was far less biting than it had been in Queens. Plus, her fashionable winter garb - red pea coat, black leather gloves, Burberry scarf, and purple knit beanie - kept her warm enough. She found a surprisingly clean and dry Adirondack chair on the back porch and settled in, the familiar yet odd angles providing a sense of comfort. Despite the lack of padding.