In my love life as well.
Yeah, like that would ever happen.
Being a Banshee tended to clobber the ability to have a romantic relationship of any kind. And being a woman firefighter? Yeah, that only made it more impossible. Most men couldn’t handle interacting with a Banshee. Add in being a Hot Shot firefighter? Forget about it.
Not that the human men knew her species. Humans didn’t interest her much, too worried with their looks, their vehicles, their social media, and glory be, their cocks. She rolled her eyes. Every male had a cock. Why the hell did they make such a big deal out of theirs? They all pretty much look the same.
But human men were more numerous than Elder Races men, and Banshees weren’t born like most other peoples. They developed when enough sorrow, anger, and pain came together in a concentrated spot, timed perfectly with a horrific storm, to create a being who embodied all those elements. Some had the ability to manipulate rain, others the ability to manipulate wind. And they were always female, as if women were the sole keepers of such helpless pain and rage.
Yeah, lucky me.
Moriah stepped into the early morning sunlight and closed her eyes. She had the ability to manipulate the winds, which made her effective with her Hot Shot team, especially when wildfires raged out of control. She’d made friends and colleagues within the team, but now her closest friend, Connor MacLachlan, had found his mate, and their time of hanging out had ended.
Don’t be an idjit, girlie. Chances are only what we make them.
The voice of the old witch who’d lived at the edge of her fen crackled in her ear. Granted, the woman had been dead for over three centuries, but her wisdom carried Moriah through the years.
Ye canna be findin’ yer one true love if yer mopin’ about like a bag o’ bollocks.
Moriah snorted and opened her eyes. As if I’m destined to find true love. She was a Banshee, an angry, wailing spirit of legend. Born of rage, sorrow, and pain. True love didn’t come with that package.
I’ll say again. Don’t be an idjit.
“Aye, I know, Mama Cairn.” If she didn’t agree, the voice would repeat its message all day. One of the perks of knowing a powerful witch. “Chances are only what we make them and all I need, right?”
The voice didn’t respond and she hoped it would leave her be for a short time as she stretched her body in preparation for a run through the San Juan National Forest. She loved the tall, majestic trees that clothed the shoulders of the Colorado Rockies. They were nothing like home and that suited her just fine.
Now, if she could just find a person to befriend who was nothing like those from home, she’d be set. And I’d be right pleased if it could be a man who wasn’t afraid of me, as long as we’re wishin’.
Yeah, as likely as dry swamp. But the old witch’s laughter chased her down the trail as she started her run.
There you have it. Stop by the following other flash fiction authors below and happy reading.