Mol Ni Mhaoileoin

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Commercial Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Irish legend.

Submitted: April 23, 2010

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Submitted: April 23, 2010

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The chill in the air was to be expected; the autumn had set in early. The meagre days of summer were naught but a distant memory, the fading recollection of the smiling Irish sun beaming down from a blanket of blue silk now faint. The warmth of those afternoons had dried the cockles and muscles that the baskets upon her cart were laden with year round. Their thick scent had poisoned the air, queerly pleasant after one had adjusted to the stench of dying oceanic invertebrates. Her bosom has darkened but the slightest shade due to her fair skin’s exposure to the light. The colour had since faded from her skin already.
Rain trickled between her breasts, the cotton of her corset and frills long since drenched. She wore her hair up but the weight of the icy downpour has mussed her tresses quite considerably, dragging red locks from the bound knot above the nape of her neck to curl wildly about her handsome face. Heavily lidded eyes were vacant of soul or expression as she called out her wares to the deserted street, declaring the goods she collected daily along the shoreline, as her parents had done before her. Today, the maiden reckoned to herself, she would not scrape a punt. Dare she sell the very same commodities tomorrow, she would be charged with poisoning her purchasers.
A shudder ran through her lissom frame, her breath snagging on exhale. The cart ground to a halt on sodden cobbles as she lowered the handles, the broad and calloused hand of a working woman lifted to her full, chapped lips as she heaved and hacked. Phlegm stained her palm but it was no worry to the maid, who sniffed twice and cast the back of her hand to her upper lip, drawing away a thin layer of mucus. She had no time for illness. Not when the weather drew custom away from the streets she worked, night time and day.
A thin sweat had broken out across her lower back, a prickling heat overcoming her not for the first time that morn.
No, no time for illness. This week would be hard. She was sturdy as a bullock, and twice as stubborn. Sickness would have to wait.


© Copyright 2019 James Vane . All rights reserved.

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