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Stream of Consciousness Saturday: “Tail/Tale”

“I hope you have a good tale for that tail sticking out of your shirt,” Eamonn said as Desmund came into the room.

The other man didn’t say a word as he turned back to close the door. Still Eamonn put his pen back near the inkwell and leaned back in the chair, waiting. He’d gone on thinking Desmund was dead for too many months. He could have patience with the man right here with him now.

Desmund hissed as he started to turn back to Eamonn. Or was that whatever was in his shirt? “Should I be jealous?” Eamonn asked quietly then lowered his voice even more. “That something is closer to you than I am.” They always had to speak quietly here. The walls were too thin.

One corner of Desmund’s mouth lifted into a smile. “At least you never dig your claws into me this way. Ouch! Will you stop that?” he demanded of the wriggling lump under his shirt.

Eamonn laughed and moved over to him, slipping free some of the buttons of his shirt. Suddenly a ball of white and gray fur fell into his hands and let out a sharp “mew”. Eamonn cradled the kitten in the palm of his hand, scratching his fingers over the top of its head. When he ran his hand over the kitten’s body, he could feel every bump of its ribs. “Where did you find him?” Her? He hadn’t even checked.

“Crying in the alley. Couldn’t just leave her there all alone.”

Of course he couldn’t. Desmund had such a soft spot for any animal in need. He was always feeding strays behind the inn. But, the innkeeper never let them keep any of them. “How did you get her past Mal? Wasn’t he downstairs?”

“Why do you think she was in me shirt? We can keep her, right?”

Like he was ever able to say no when Desmund looked at him like that.

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Today’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt was to use tail/tale, one or both, any way we want. I had several half-formed ideas by the time I got up this morning, but this is the only one that stuck and formed into more. If it does make it into the book, it’ll be somewhere in the second half of book 2 of my Green Hills & Smoky Fields series, which I’m still plotting.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday: “Ink”

Bridgette stepped into the dining room and saw that Eamonn was the only one there. He didn’t even seem to notice her presence though, as he focused on the paper in front of him. He scribbled a few lines over it, pressed the end of the nib pen against his lip then put it back against the paper. He only paused in the scribbling to dip the pen back into the inkwell.

“Writing a letter?” she asked as she moved closer. She hadn’t really seen much of him recently. Not as much as she had seen of Torin. She felt a little bad that she wasn’t more disappointed by that. But, he was here now.

He jumped a little at her voice, and a few drops of ink fell across the page. He wiped at them, but they only smeared across the paper. He shrugged and set the pen aside. “Not a letter, no.”

She moved a little closer, hoping to get a glimpse of what he was writing. If not a letter, then what could it be? But he slid the paper under a blank sheet. Right, so he did not want her to see. He had been fairly charming to her over the days. She hadn’t expected this turn of behavior.

“You are not going to let me see then?”

“Nay, I do not think that a good idea,” he said, but he did flash her that smile. The one that liked to make her knees a little weak. It wasn’t as strong as it usually was. And it had nothing on what just Torin’s hand on her elbow did to her.

And there was still a sadness in Eamonn’s eyes. He was not as despondent as when they’d first arrived, a little more than a month ago. But, she still saw flashes of it, especially when he didn’t think anyone–mostly his brother it seemed–was watching. She did not know why he didn’t want her to see what he was writing, though. What could the harm be if it was not a personal letter.

But, she moved away and from the corner of her eye saw him dip the pen again. She tried to catch a few words without getting too close. But none of those made much sense to her. Not without seeing all of them. But, she couldn’t seem to help looking over from time to time.

It wasn’t until he was starting to fold the paper, and she got a glimpse of the name at the top of what he’d been writing she got her first clue. Keagen Aislinn. She’d seen that name before. Along with a rather stirring diatribe in The Nation. She couldn’t believe that was Eamonn. He could be charming when he chose to be, but this had gone beyond that. It could see him transported if not hanged.

“Have care,” she murmured as she stepped past him. “I know your brother enjoys your presence.”

He met her gaze for a moment, awareness in those eyes. She’d been caught by them from the first moment she’d looked into them. But, he simply nodded after a moment and turned away.

What was he doing to her? Not even two months ago, she’d sworn she’d never letย  a man control her. Now, she was being turned and twisted by two of them. No, she would not let it happen. Especially not for a man who seemed to be willing to risk being charged with sedition.

She definitely wasn’t going to let herself fall for him.

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Today’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt was to use “ink” either as a noun or verb. Wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do at first. But, Eamonn decided to start speaking to me, or writing as it is. ๐Ÿ˜‰ The Nation was actually an Irish newspaper that would have been published around this time, and by this time, several of the contributors had been transported to Australia for exactly what Eamonn is doing, which would be why he’s writing under an assumed name. ๐Ÿ™‚

Stream of Consciousness Saturday: “Shortcut/Cut Short”

“You cannot just take a shortcut to justice.”

“It is the only justice he will ever get,” Torin said as he continued to brush his mare’s coat.

“That does not mean it has to be you who brings it his way,” Eamonn argued. “You are all I have left, my brother. Do not take that from me as well.”

Torin firmed his jaw at the guilt that tried to seep into his bones. He couldn’t let his brother’s pleas turn him from this path. “He killed our parents. He destroyed everything we had. I cannot just let him get away with that.”

“I cannot take losing you, too. Not after–”

“Stop,” Torin cut short whatever else Eamonn was going to say. “It does not matter what you say. I am going, Eamonn. You will not stop me. Just leave it.”

Torin was sure his brother would argue some more, instead Eamonn turned and stalked away. They’d made a semi-shelter in what was left of the barn. Torin imagined he was going back there. It wouldn’t offer much protection, but they wouldn’t be able stay here for much longer anyway. Especially after he did what he planned.

“He’ll try to stop me again, Ceallach,” he told the mare. “we can’t let it happen. No one else will make him pay. It has to be me.”

The mare blew out a breath and turning her head, nudged his arm. He buried his face against her neck, taking comfort from her. Other than his brother, the horse was all he had left in the world.

Owen Curran had taken everything else from him. Torin would stop him before he did the same to anyone else. No matter what more it might cost him. He’d promised his father, and he would see it through now.

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No, Jonas and Isaac this week. Sorry if you were looking forward to them. This week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt was to use shortcut/ cut short. And I decided to put this toward my goal on my NaNoWriMo project…after making sure shortcut was a term that would have been used in the 1850s(by the 1600s , so I’m safe). Now, I’m off to get more of those words. Torin has some revenge to get after all(though that won’t go quite the way he has planned).

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