The Mists of World’s End: The Diary of Shelly Gwynne

Day Eleven, The Island:


I have never been so tired in me whole damn life as I am right now.  Even scribing these words into the book I’ve found in the supplies wot just keep appearing out of the ocean, as if the god of the ocean finds me to be of some great import. I cannot say what it may be, but it feels as though something is coming, some portent, some wyrd I cannot make heads nor tails of… and I feel as though I should be frightened, but strangely, I find meself excited—

A thunderclap jolted me, and I looked out the makeshift tent I’d erected between three tall trees just up the beach, having strung up a net in hammock form between the two biggest. Tucking the book and quill in my vest, I grimaced as I walked over to the palm tree leaves that made an awning of sorts over the opening, watching the lightning striking the ocean not two miles away from the shore. Taking a thick stick and stirring the coals, I added a bit of kindling, ill-prepared for the tremors I felt shuddering beneath my feet. Seconds later, everything shook and I wrapped my arms around the trunk of the palm closest to me, grabbing the rope that held the hammock bed and tugging it loose. I shimmied up the palm until I could grasp the leaves and I tied myself to its top just as enormous waves crashed below me, taking out the makeshift home I’d made and leaving me with nothing once more. I leaned my forehead to the tree, holding on tight as the storm raged, hoping to the gods that I’d survive the night.

I’ve survived worse or ain’t that apparent? I thought I’d drowned—I still ain’t certain I didn’t. I was stabbed by the woman I thought I loved, and the beasts of the deep should have come after me, but I washed up on a foreign shore. Nary a soul in sight, nothin’ but this isle and this shore.

A long blue-white bolt strikes the ground not three feet from me and I can’t help but cry out, hiding my face as I shiver in the rain, the ferocity of the storm now centered on the island as the metallic scent of lightning fills my nose. I prayed then, to God, to Davy Jones, to Poseidon—anything and anyone I could remember that might calm the ocean’s wrath and allow me to live.

Please… I beg ye! I have a purpose… a fate! I can see the threads o’ me tapestry and they don’t end here! Please… calm the wind and rain and let me down from me perch. I’ll fill it. I promise ye!

Author: M. LeAnne Phoenix

M. LeAnne Phoenix would tell you that the worst time of her life was the two years that she attempted to take off from writing. If you asked her to explain exactly why she did such a thing, you would most likely get the mad attempt to arch an eyebrow like her dad and then a shake of the head as she told you it was unlucky to speak of such things. Suffice it to say, it will never happen again! Born and raised in Fort Worth, Texas in the mid-1970's, Ms. Phoenix was young and wild (and even free!) during the crazy wondrous decade known as the 1980's and the even crazier but now grungy decade of the 1990's. Music is second only to the muses that live and breathe to fill her mind with beautiful men, and music always helps them to tell their stories. She is never without her iPod or her computer no matter where she goes, although, she does like to hike and take pictures of the sky and the moon, and even the occasional shot of the sun through the branches of a tree. An avid cat lover, Ms. Phoenix has been owned by many throughout her life, though her current owner is one Gypsy Jo, who really would like for her to step away from the keyboard and pay her some attention! After all, hasn't she earned it? M. LeAnne Phoenix can be found on Facebook at As this is her first real foray into the professional world of writing, there will be more social media to come.

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