Emery Morrigan

About Me:

I’m intensely neurospicy; a writer of emotions that run too big and traumas that echo my own lived experiences. Writing is my outlet, my ritual, my way of making sense of life.

~

Aunt Corrin drew him in, clasped his hands and declared him skinny with low color. Alastor waved that all off immediately and deflected; perhaps...he could go on and help miss June bake the St. Andrew's bread shaped into a cross while auntie Corrin's twin sister wondered about the bowl of water in the parlor window, and rocks hung upon the door. 

"It's that old-Catholic, Charlotte," Seamus was saying while Alastor edged off and nearly tripped over one of his little crawling cousins. "They've adopted some o' the Creole down here. Ask Eddie's missus about looking into the bowl at midnight, and seeing the face of your intended." 

"Sounds like devilry to me." 

"Oh Charlotte, not everything you do not understand is devilry," Alastor heard mama say, and cast her a pointed very dramatic look, till she noticed him, with a wrinkle of pain on her face, and a twitching mouth.

"Alastor, do not start- that invention you brought home-"

"No, mother, would you like to tell auntie how you screamed like a banshee at an imitation Edison?" He twinkled.