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From: Hammon Wry <hammonwry@nospamyahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Hammon Wry's Words of the Day for Monday March 3, 2003
Date: Mon, 19 May 2003 16:10:02 -0400
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Hammon Wry's Words of the Day for Monday March 3, 2003

Note: Due to copyright laws, I am hesitant to include the definitions
and pronunciations of the words of the day.  I have provided the
websites for each so that you can look up the words for yourself.  

This is an exercise in writing discipline.  I am trying to get into
the habit of writing something every day.  I figure if I use the words
of the day from two sources in a sexual context, I will have
inspiration and motivation.  

And now, on to Hammon Wry's Words of the Day!
(C) E. Howe   2003
All rights reserved

Dictionary.com's word of the day: stormy petrel
http://dictionary.reference.com/wordoftheday/archive/2003/03/03.html 
M-W.com's word of the day: career
http://www.m-w.com/cgi-bin/mwwodarch.pl?Mar.03

Seabirds wheeled and turned, then would career headlong into the
waters of the bay.  Arising with a fish wriggling in their beaks, they
would mount the sky with fast strokes of their wings, reaching the
cliffs within moments.  The birds would bank, then settle on the edge
to gulp their meals.  

One bird continued to wheel, circling widely over the cliff and sea.
The woman on the strand below watched the stormy petrel with a weather
eye.  She hugged her shawl about her in the evening chill.  

It was an odd shawl, a seal's skin, dark and luminous with the dense
fur.  As she listened to the song of the birds, she discerned the
approach of her lover, the fisherman with whom she'd spent the last 18
years. She turned to see his stooped form move toward her on the
strand.  

His hair was hoary, his hands curled in on themselves from the
crippling winter winds as he worked the nets.  She stood straight and
slim, her breasts and belly that of the woman he'd captured so many
years ago.  She had not aged a day. He stopped before her. 

"Moira, are ye leaving me then?  Will ye nae stay one more night?"

She watched him through eyes that had no whites.  Darkness ran from
edge to edge, like the creature whose skin she wore. 

"Tomas, I mean to leave on the tide.  I will take my sons with me.
Dinna try to stop me, man.  For 18 years, I have been your captive.
You held me here against my better wisdom.  I have to return to my
home.  My people need me."

He reached out a hand to touch her, and she flinched.  How many times
had this happened before?  She'd find her shawl, and mean to leave.
But he had always managed to meet her on the strand, and convince her
to stay, "Just one more night, luv, once more to comfort my sorrow?"

He'd take her in his arms, smelling of the sweat of the land, and the
salt of the sea.  His root would burrow between her thighs, and yet
again, she would conceive.  Another two years would pass before she
could leave.  The nights in the cabin were heated with their loving.
He'd turn her this way and that, and she, as lithe and nimble in bed
as the otters of the rivers and the seals of the sea would arch
beneath him.  She stood on the strand, trying to row the boat of her
mind away from memory's shore.  

She stepped away from him, and turning, called out in an odd barking
sound.  It was returned by three voices in the water.  Deftly, she
moved down the strand, as quick as sandpipers running from the waves.
She dropped her shawl to the sand at her feet, then tore her dress
from her shoulders.  It fell like rain around her ankles.  She kicked
it free.  Stooping, naked, she retrieved her shawl and wrapped it
about her.  The moon rose as the sun set over the land behind them.

With tears in his eyes, he watched her form in the moonlight.  The
tide was turning, and she walked with an oddly stiff gait toward the
water.  His heart contracted at the sight of her, naked but for the
ragged skin about her shoulders.  Pains shot from his chest to his
arms, and the air turned thick in his lungs. 

He was drowning in air as she entered the sea, the skin covering her
entire body now.  She returned to her other form, and he sank to his
knees in the sand.  

With a final leap, her body now elongated and sleek, the selkie
returned to the sea.  The fisherman closed his hands on the sands, and
began his return to the earth with his final breath.



Hammon Wry
The story of the Selkie always fascinated me.  It's a Scottish tale of
the folk of the sea who wear the shape of a seal in the water, but
could become human on land. A fisherman captures one by stealing her
sealskin, and they live as man and wife.  She bears him 3 sons, and
then one day leaves him for the sea after locating her sealskin.  She
takes their children with her. 

To learn more about the Selkie, go to:
http://www.orkneyjar.com/folklore/selkiefolk/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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