Wrath Of An Irish Maiden

Wrath Of An Irish Maiden

 

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Storm - Blackhead - Sea - cliff - Ireland - county Clare

Kathleen waited in her modest home, with the parish Priest and her family, listening to storm reports. The breaking news announced the flash flood that brought down a bridge. Kathleen knew he was on it, crossing that bridge to get to her, even in this horrid storm.

Digesting the news she’d just heard, Kathleen sat stock-still for a moment, letting the enormity of it hit her. Then she bolted, still in her wedding gown, running into the wind of a storm that County Clare had not seen the likes of for twenty five years.

The Nor’easter blew its fury, dashing waves and spray over the tops of nearby cliffs. With storm clouds surrounding her, blacker than night, she screamed her frenzied grief into side-slanting rain that blew her long, red hair straight back, You took him from me! You godforsaken bitch! You took him from meeee,” she wailed and sobbed, screaming at Mother Nature and any god who would listen.

With gale-force winds whipping her slight frame to and fro, she edged dangerously close to the slippery, black shale, cliffs. She was barely discernible in the driving rain and the cold splashing of the Atlantic. Only bolts and flashes of lightning that split the sky gave enough illumination to make out the shape of a mad woman, with her entire body twisting, cursing, and fighting an unseen enemy as she pummeled her own demons.

Kathleen was far beyond fear of storms that once terrified her. Tonight, she feared nothing, including death. She shook her tiny fists at the gods, at all of the legends and lore about hearty, Irish, men and women who had survived worse.

She could not imagine worse than a life without her love, and continued her raving madness, There is no worse,” she shrieked, “This is worst,” she screamed, releasing her unrelenting pain into the raging tempest that spat it back in her face with its howling winds.

Bolts of lightning dodged her small frame as though fearful but the deluge answered her, splattering her soaked body with a vengeance. Her pearl-white gown clung to her, filthy, tattered, and shredded, with her beautiful face now contorted in utter insanity. Outrage and agony tore through her, as nothing ever had.

She was mad with grief, incensed ire, and beyond the ability to return from her own hell, but the storm pitched everything it had at her.Kathleen fought, swore, and cursed, as though boxing the merciless onslaught.

Finally, she leaned into the wild winds, screaming her wrath that matched the raging, furious cyclone and then charged the jagged cliffs, swearing to join her love in death. Out of nowhere, strong arms encompassed her waist, hauling her back to safety. Exhaustion claimed her as she fainted into merciful blackness, not even realizing she had fainted into the arms of her fiancé.
 
 
By Wildfire8470

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© January 15, 2017 – 10:08 PM – All Rights Reserved
Copyrighted.com Registered & Protected AVKS-29L0-TGBF-5TQR
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tags:  Cliffs of MoherFictionGriefInsanityIrelandIrish Legend, Loss,

RageRomanceTantalizing Tuesday TeaserTrue LoveTuesday TeasersWrath
WiP, Wrath
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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12 thoughts on “Wrath Of An Irish Maiden

  1. I think the photo possessed you, Karen. You clearly had to run with the inspiration and you were right to do so. Powerfully evocative, taking the reader right to the heart of the storm, both within and surrounding Kathleen. This Irish reader loved your Irish maiden’s fiery grief and her final consolation. Stirring prose indeed.

    • Thanks so much, Angelica. Our writing styles are vastly different but I feel the same way when I read your works. It’s a wonderful, sneak-peek into your imagination! 🙂

  2. Forget about doubling the number of words, your story is as powerful as the the storm you described. You defined her raging grief accurately. I feared the storm would have its revenge and throw her off the cliff, but your decision for her to throw herself off and be caught from behind by her fiancee was the best ending possible. You and I are too much alike; we write for happy endings.

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