Yet again Nimue Brown takes pity on me and hosts my rampant ramblings, this time on the subject of Myomancy and poetic form… ish…
The Tragic History Of Aisling Ó Rathaille
(Or The Myomancer)
By Aodhagán Ó Rathaille
Aisling was never a strange child – not when we considered the very many stranger people that dwell around here. She kept herself to herself but then who could blame her? And as dutifully protective parents we were needless to say delighted that she preferred her own company to that of the unquestionably sinister orphans with which this island is undoubtedly over populated.
When we moved into The House, I confess there were noises ; the wind moved through the pneumanated marrow of the place and the timbers gave it voice. That is what we assumed. And The House was so very beautiful back then, standing proud on a set of impressive rock arches near the cliff edge like a last bastion of sanity and hope erected by some bold and indomitable architect.
So very pretty…
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