Our Fire, Given Freely

Rider Bray leans forward on her hands, a cat before a bird. “I could kill your gang of sixty in a minute,” she says. “I could snap their bones with my bare hands and run them down as they fled. I could do the same against six hundred. I am invested with the might of so many, Marantic Lind. No number of men lit by one solitary fire can match me.”

I will earn no glory here, Rider Bray wants to shout. I will still be Rider. I will still be a woman with a name that spreads its legs across a horse.
Women in Sandstone

The South-East Wind had not blown through those hills since becoming the guardian of the temple for this period, but the South Wind blew there / where the bones drift into gullies like the snow that falls in other lands and I can call through them in a hundred voices, like lizards, like foxes, like men /

\ the woman speaks names into the winds: Kesty and Mirtun, the sandstone figure's, and her own \
Audio Fiction Podcast:
At the Edge of the Sea

Podcast: Download (Duration: 26:22 — 18.11MB)

Blood is salt, like seawater; the heart moves an ocean in miniature.
From the Archives:
The Death of Roach
I didn’t reply. I knew her words were part of the test.