Ega Gabriella Valle Fabbriani

Sandy Mary

The ball of fire stretches its many hairy arms behind the canyons ahead of the camp. Young lady Sandy is stretching her ghostly legs, the muscles of her face, yawning, dusting off the sand from her dark hair before she can tuck it back into her hat for the day. Old lady Mary is still asleep, lightly asleep like a good mare, using her stay apparatus to rest one of her back legs while the others endure. Sandy checks her boots for any possible creatures inside and, confirming it is safe, puts both feet in. She takes a noisy gulp from the Alabama stoneware ring-bottle, stolen from her family – as was the mare. Mary jumps at the sound, and so the ladies set out for breakfast.