Stories by Mail, Day 37 – A maidly roar

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The waterfall raged and sputtered, a cascade of beautiful destruction, gallon after gallon crashing into the sharp rocks below. A nearby tourist boat tittered excitedly from a few hundred feet away. And behind the falls, The Maid of the Mist sighed as a sneeze rocketed through her chamber.

She’d been ill before, most recently in the mid 1700s. The boats that crossed her front parlor then carried men in uniform, their accents sharp and rolling. She remembered the explosions, so deafening they’d often drowned out her own voice.

She concentrated as the boat approached, closed her watery eyes, and roared with all her strength. It proved only about half the fury she could normally harness, but the passengers applauded and cheered, their phones aimed straight into her doorway.

The Maid grinned. She adored her job.


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Stories by Mail, Day 7 – Turning, Standing

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“Do you remember the fields?”, the spire asked in a low, rumbling timbre. “The lush, green valley that stretched far beyond our sight?   The lives that sprang up and played out under our watch?  Now we lie on a bed of crimson rust.”  It muttered as softly as a moth’s song. “Fools wish for immortality.”

The butte snorted, trusting that its friend would understand it was not being contemptuous. The snort’s nuance had been developing for millions of years. “Of course I remember. But there’s beauty in the stark too. All things wind around.”

The spire pondered this and nodded, as much as it was possible for a rock to nod.


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