The Isles of Bliss were not what Fionn had been led to expect—the dwellings hard and harsh, full of crude, dead fabrics and witchlight to see by.
He looked at the woman as she lay sleeping, at the gentle, soft curves of her, beneath the veiled light of the moon and sighed. One woman is, after all, much like another in sleep.
No man could deceive the fairy folk and live, that was known by all, but if he didn’t understand the words of the enchantment, did that not mean it had no hold upon him? There was only one way to find out.
Fionn sat in the seat next to the laughing woman and let her drive her invisible horses where she would.
Her words had no meaning to him, but her smile spoke a language he understood.
When the chariot finally stopped, Fionn hesitated, but the woman’s face, her perfume, filled his senses, and he stepped out onto the soil of the Isles of Bliss, knowing that he would never see his home again.
Fiachra spied Fionn the instant before he was swallowed by a shining, silver beast, drawn in the wake of a golden woman.
Was it Naimh, he wondered, come back to entice him to the Isles of Bliss?
The shining beast slid away in a rumble and a gassy stink, and Fiachra sighed. The fairy people had ever taken what they wanted.
“Hey! Where’s the party?” A young woman tossed the words at him with an admiring smile.
He licked his lips, not understanding, his eyes drawn to her strange attire. Tight and uncomfortable-looking, the breeches emphasised the line of her hips. The woman giggled. “Where’d you leave the long ship and the rest of the boys?”
His fear dissipated in her laughter and he smiled back, deciding to follow where the enchanted woman led.
Next three lines.
Fionn was lost. It was inevitable—there were no landmarks just walls, and he couldn’t even see the sun in the sky.
Beyond, where the wall shadow ended he saw a ribbon of sunlight and rapid movement—the stone river was a highway, but the roaring was not from warhorses.
The beasts that glinted as they sped past were bloodless and angry. Sweat pricked on his face and the beginnings of fear.
This three line story is for Sonya’s weekly challenge to write a story in three lines inspired by the photo below.
Fionn stepped onto the strange bridge over the dry stone river, hanging his harp over the parapet as a sign.
The bard traced an arrow on the misted pane and set off in his tracks.
With luck the Fianna would follow and help bring the lost hero home.
This story in three lines is inspired by the photo below. The prompt is from Sonya’s Three Line Tales challenge.
Photo ©Samuel Zeller
“We’ll have a tremendous view,” he said trying to smile. “We’re lucky they can predict exactly when it’ll start.”
“Lucky?” She pushed away her coffee untouched.
“Lucky would be if they’d had the sense to prevent the Apocalypse, not predict it.”
This is a great idea, a story in three lines prompted by the photo below. Please head over to Sonya’s blog to read the other stories.
Photo ©Glenn Noble
She bought a lottery ticket and gave it to him to look after.
They watched the draw on TV, and the result almost gave her a seizure.
He said he’d put the ticket safely inside the front cover of a book.
The shelves crowded closer in the dimming light.
Nobody heard when she called out that she couldn’t find the exit.
When the lights went off, she was alone—until the rustling started.