As she carefully approached the enormous, oaken table, Allie’s vacant acceptance of what was unfolding around her started to bend, like a forgotten aqueduct that began to receive dribs and drabs of fresh water.
She hadn’t an earnest thought, or a simple memory recall, about where she came from or why she was there… only that her name was Allie and someone or something had made her bleed.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Just beyond the table, a perpetual breeze serpentined through the tall, wispy grass, and created a symphonic wave whose syncopated rustle sounded like a gently plucked harp.
As Allie rubbed her right arm and stepped toward the table, she observed the pristine seafront and it’s naturally meandering striations, which seemed to imprint time’s tide in a coastal longform.
(Written by Edward Roads)
She was alone with the wind… no hungry, discombobulated crowds, no assemblage of rickety boats that discharged nameless aspirants, and no indication, save for a single thing, that Dock 19 existed.
Allie, who was standing at the lip of an encroaching tide, dropped the mysterious syringe onto the wet shoreline, and fixated on what appeared to be a hulking table near the top of the berm.
(Written by Edward Roads)
There were moments, brief indeed, perhaps better described as pauses, where unremarkable events that took place during the course of a given day seemed to subliminally disengage; as if the air, in all it’s capacities and nuances, suddenly got quiet.
Those were the thoughts that seeped into Allie Carraig’s unsteady mind when her regard for the bloody syringe abruptly dissevered… and she noticed something absolutely terrifying.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Beneath a starry and birdless sky, on the center crest of this safe and magnificent islet she called Brigadoon, the sole Sovereign, housed in a hooded woolen wrap, serenely sat with legs crossed, palms up and arms fully extended.
Her name was Zenobia.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Should curious souls be brave enough to approach this very small place, said souls would inevitably fall prey to a petulant portion of the Atlantic that callously reduces any craft to an unpredictable skiff of temerity.
Before their imminent demise was at hand, seafarers might glimpse an overwhelming radiance undulating betwixt the formidable spires…the island’s majestic breath.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Tall, jagged walls of ancient rock rose high along the perimeter of an almost beachless shoreline, and protectively cradled the rich topography naturally encased within.
The verdant and lively land, flourishing with succulent fruit trees and lush vegetable gardens, was intricately connected by rudimentary footpaths which cleverly converged at a substantial, circular clearing in the center.
(Written by Edward Roads)
In an unflinching formation that featured a hint of pugnacity, spotted sea birds carefully maneuvered above a clandestine, rock-ribbed island located almost twenty miles northwest of Skellig Michael.
Lost amid the ferocity of a continuously raging ocean and unknown to even the most detailed nautical charts, decades of maritime vox populi commonly dismiss the tiny island as an eerie myth.
(Written by Edward Roads)
This time the quiet air seemed to focus her scattered thoughts, instead of transporting them to muddled longitudes and convoluted cerebral precincts that constantly flickered from just beyond arm’s length.
Allie backed up two or three steps, knelt down, and picked up a fairly hefty, discharged syringe with dried blood on the outside… but the disturbing crimson color was also on the inside.
(Written by Edward Roads)
As she stared into the turbid, wavering mass… her arm, now tingling with apparent recovery, briefly diverted her attention to the right, where she noticed a small tube on the ground.
{..what happened to my…nothing …there…why am I…} It was at that moment the air got quiet.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Her milky white midriff was thinly drawn, ribby, perhaps even emaciated… but Allie Carraig was experiencing a physical and introspective resurgence of soul, that in all likelihood would unshade the mystic margin between life and death.
As a black and comfortless sky was developing over Dock 19, actually a wasteland tagged Dock 19, the encroaching mass, now more amoeba than hominid, drifted up to the very tip of Allie’s nose.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Besides the tight rope cable around her neck, Allie wore nothing but faded black jeans, a thick cotton T-shirt, and scuffed work boots whose untied laces hung stiffly askew.
She pulled at the base of her cinereal shirt, tore a 5″ swath all the way around, and twisted up an effective tourniquet for her right arm, which was now completely numb.
(Written by Edward Roads)
The cloudless sky, that had been an umbrella of guidance since she left the bad place, was surreptitiously morphing into a grotesque endlessness of sooty, damp grey.
{why can’t I stop thinking about those damn sea birds} She instinctively closed her eyes to collect her conscience, suppress overwhelming pain, and rediscover the necessary fortitude to stand and face a massive dark form that knew her name.
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
As Allie gingerly rolled left to better assess the agony in her right arm, she suddenly winced when the brobdingnagian form, which was now too close to ignore, blustered something.
There was a tender, bruised knurl on the upper half of her arm that felt punctured and clotted.. still oozing… “ARE YOU ALLIE CARRAIG!?!”
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
A murky haze with an unusual motion, like wobbly air in the abyss of a scorching desert, finally began to dissipate underneath Allie’s fluttering eyelids.
As a towering and rotund silhouette came into focus above her, Allie quickly realized she was not only flat on her back, but her right arm was in excruciating pain.
(Photo by Edward Roads)
(Written by Edward Roads)
Mytwosentences 