Walking down Cowgate at twelve in the morning and my coat snaps at my legs, pulled tight against my chest. Winter’s chill hangs in the air like a detective waiting to break the news of her husband’s murder to a widow.
There was that smell the wind carried from him…. dry and hot, loaded with a coppery bite that made some long-forgotten ancestral gene think, incredibly, of blood.
Safer In The Tomb
I will be Cú Chulainn, the dog of the smith. Please.This he swears. This is his oath. This is his curse.
I shall be the Hound of Ulster.
Pablo Lacalle Writing 