Saralyn Caine
Bio
Saralyn lives and writes from her hovel on the outskirts of the Great Dismal Swamp. A self-proclaimed crone in maiden form, she spends her weekends cross-stitching memes and sipping tea in the company of her husband and feline familiar.
Stories (4)
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The Nymph and the Satyr
It was not a natural awakening. Her prone body was stretched atop the soft peeling bark of a branch not far above the ground. Her bare foot, grass-stained and muddy from running among the trees, was being caressed in the lightest way as it dangled toward the forest floor. It tickled something dreadful. She flinched, tugging her leg up to her chest, but that just made the culprit grab her ankle.
By Saralyn Caine5 years ago in Fiction
Thorn from Bone
Lokey slammed the front door shut and watched the bus drive away, exhaust tumbling out of its pipes like a cantankerous dragon awoken from its slumber. A dragon surely awaited her upstairs once he saw her report card. Senior year did not agree with her.
By Saralyn Caine5 years ago in Fiction
The Word I Carry
I am the last of my language. The child I led through the wild snows has just died. She was not mine, but when her family perished, I felt obliged to cover her in my own furs. I was happy to do it. Sofe was old enough to ask questions. With no other adult left to talk to, her barrage of whys sustained my sanity. Now even that is gone. I can move faster without the weight of her insistence on being carried, but I'd rather have two of her on my back than the empty howl of the tundra as my only companion.
By Saralyn Caine5 years ago in Fiction
