With hunched, frail shoulders the crone leaned against her sand-smooth staff. Her gnarled hand trembled holding a wax sealed bottle. Inside, a parchment displayed swirls of an unknown language.
It’s fell soundlessly onto the rocks. There it danced with the tide like a lost jewel beneath the hidden sun’s demise.
“Please,” she croaked echoless upon the breezeless eve. “Father, let me come home for this land is not for me.”
A tail of rainbow scales splashed a wave–then disappeared.
The bottle was stolen.
She waited and prayed for the storms to align and for her antiquated land legs’ last dawn.
(100 words)
Rural Romantic Ramblings 
Very nice.
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Thank you.
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Another excellent and visual piece to add to your growing collection of 100 word epics – nicely done Mel!
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Now that I’ve dragged your words from unfathomable depths of Spamalot – thanks, Nik. Aren’t epics – wordy? ;P
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Phew…was getting pretty lonely down there I can tell you…
That’s a very deep (and epic) question. I shall put some thought into it…;)
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