Rachael MacDonald
Bio
Avid Reader, Sometimes Poet, Occasional Writer, and searcher of truths often lost in the breaths between candy-coated lies.
Stories (83)
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A Dragon's Flight
The air is cool against my scales, and I can finally breathe. The hot sun shines down through the morning mist sharp and stabby, its heat welcome on my iridescent wings. I pump them hard once more, shooting straight through a wet cloud then level off. I am above the clouds now and the world below consists of nothing but these rolling white hills and I feel utterly alone. Before that would have scared me, but now all I feel is content. Banking west, I tuck my wings in and coast several miles. The air is cooler this way and acts as an invisible compass that will direct me to my destination. Home, I whisper out loud. I am finally going home. And for that glorious morning, for the first time in a long time, all was well.
By Rachael MacDonald3 years ago in Fiction
A Winter's Claiming
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Cotton candy clouds I called them when I was little. It was my favorite time of day. When the blue suns faded, and the red moon rose a washing the valley in violet majesty. Snuggled in our barns loft amongst the hay and wheat, I watched the winter dragons migrate north toward the Carpathian mountains where they would breed during the summer months only to return upon the first snowfall. Their golden scales glistening goodbye in the dying light of day.
By Rachael MacDonald3 years ago in Fiction
The Sun and the Moon
“Well, It finally happened. I finally lost my mind.” Camille shook her head as if she could shake the psychosis right out. She imagined loose keys jangling around a glass bowl, and if she could only tip her head the perfect way, the delusion key would slip out of her ear in sweet release.
By Rachael MacDonald3 years ago in Fiction
House
“If walls could talk,” Jessica whispered into the cavernous room. Her eyes glanced over ghostlike furniture lost in thought. The room itself was centuries old. Built in the late 1500’s by a Lord long forgotten. The room was scattered with furniture mixing regency and medieval collections in swaths of printed fabrics and gilded chairs. Most were currently covered by large white sheets, but where several of the cloths slipped, dust motes danced on faded silks in the early morning sunlight.
By Rachael MacDonald3 years ago in Fiction
