Sean thought he understood. Maureen – proud, fearless and free – had been captive to a crazed, driven man. She’d been unharmed, but alone and afraid in the dark. Now, she was bareheaded in the sun, a pistol at her hip, fighting back. Nothing he could say would ever change her mind, but he couldn’t participate.
“You know if you do this, the army will round you up with the rest of them – if you aren’t killed first.”
“No, I’ll get out before they do.”
“Where will you go? Jenny’s won’t be safe.”
“No, but other places will be, Sean. What about you?”
She was saying goodbye.
“I’m getting out, Maureen. I can’t stay here – I doubt I’d be welcome at Jenny’s anyway. The army is going to lock this city down and I don’t want to be trapped here when they do. I’ll telegraph Gerry when I get to Kildare, see if he can put me up for a bit. I’ll wait for you there.”
Maureen didn’t say anything to that, she just nodded and slipped her arms around him for a quick hug. And then she was gone, her message – her mission – clutched in her hand.
D: What does that have to do with celebrating, or good times?
A: Nothing, I just liked it.
D: I see . . . then what are we celebrating, exactly?
A: 100 follows for the blog, 98 of which are not related to me.
D: And the tweeting twitter bird, how many on there?
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A: 125, and only 2 of those know me from the outside world. Plus, we’ve been doing this pretty regularly for two months now.
D: And you haven’t stopped writing in six months. That’s a record for you, A. I might have to do an epic poem in your honor. In the original Pict, of course.
A: And I haven’t killed you yet, which is remarkable, all things considered.
D: I admire your restraint.
A: You should. I started this whole thing as a way to productively procrastinate, and begin learning and developing a platform for the book. I think that goal is doing pretty well – it’s a perpetual goal, of course, but I’m happy with the progress. It’s also Father’s Day – for a whole two hours yet here – so I wan’ted to send out Father’s Day greetings to all the Dads, Step-Dads, Grand-Dads, Moms-who-are-Dads: everyone. Even you get in on that love-fest, D.
D: How so, A? I was more the child’s sire, not the man who reared him. Circumstances.
A: Still, I think eventually you did well by him – or at least his many-times-great grandson.
D: That is a spoiler, A.
A: Indeed it is, but Happy Father’s Day, anyway, D. Now, if you–
D: Not so fast, A – speaking of goals?
A: Outline part 3. Add some pages to the blog and acknowledge some award nominations. Oh, and drag out the treadmill. We declared a truce over my birthday weekend, but it’s time to enter the fray again, I’m afraid.
D: Is there a war against the treadmill of which I am not aware?
A: No, the war is against my sagging–
D: I’m sorry I asked; I don’t want to know this. Go to bed, A – it’s well past time!
A: Cheers, D!
The Druid Tells the Tale
D: Head over to that virtual marketplace (the wonders of this modern world) and buy Charles’ book, Beginnings of a Hero, now for .99 cents. It is a suitably epic read.
A: In honor of Father’s Day, I present to you a riff on the role of women in Star Wars: The Smurfette of Star Wars.
D: You have odd ideas about tributes, A.
A: I know, but it was funny and thought-provoking. Plus, I love Star Wars.
D: Fair enough.