But seriously. Look for it Monday. : )
It’s the first in my 11-part chronicle of Sinead (pronounced shuh-nayd, apparently. But you’re reading this in your head! So you pronounce it however you’d like!! ..You’re welcome.) and his time on the Broken Light. In lieu of spoiling the entire thing here and now, I’ll just let you read the first two paragraphs:
There was something amiss in the heavens: someone, somewhere, was not doing their job properly. A pipe had burst, likely as not, and the entire country had been–for the past three days–under a perpetual deluge of sky-water, which showed no signs of abating. It was in this spate of sea that Sinead slunk, sopping wet and scrabbling after sheep.
The troubling thing about the sheep was not that they were bumbling all over the grey limestone and sopping greenness of Ireland, but that today, there were only four. Yesterday, there were five. Earlier in the week, six. If the townspeople got just that bit of news, they’d’ve shaken their sorrowful heads and muttered “Faeries, and the like” before carrying on their way to or from the sea.
Sinead knew better.