Cold Iron

Walking to the back of the old house, Samuel noticed the changes since last time he'd been home. There were weeds growing up from the foundation. The chicken coop had probably been empty for more than a year. But none of the of the deterioration moved him. He had no nostalgia for this place. In truth, this was no longer his home.

The smithy was the one part of the farm almost as he remembered. All the tools hanging in just the right place. Except the forge wasn't burning anymore, the anvil had long grown cold.

Dad was truly gone.

The Three Brigits

Brigit, Irish Goddess of Poetry, sits at the feet of her Mother of Plenty.

She calls to her sisters, Brigit of Medicine and Brigit of Smithcraft. They watch as humans emerge on Earth.

Brigit of inspiration says to them, “Humans are evolving, so I’ve blessed them with verse. What gifts do you bestow?”

Brigit of healing says, “I share my curiosity so they explore their world and themselves.”

Brigit of the forge answers, “I share my love of craft, the shaping of earthly elements.”

Mother says, “I pray they find peace and joy in our plentiful gifts before destroying them.”

From Guest Contributor Soma Datta (@somaxdatta)

The Thaumaturge

Every morning, the dirty children that wandered the streets in search of easily obtained coin and crumb gathered. They did their best to stay out of sight, hiding behind shadows and around corners in the nearly empty lane. The neighborhood denizens prized the hour as the quietest of the day.

Griffin used the mornings to fashion that day's inventions. Afterwards, when the hard work at his forge was complete, and he had only to worry about entertaining his customers, the shop bustled, and the street outside resembled any other.

It was a dangerous thing, to watch a miracle being wrought.