It was after another of the meetings of Writers’ For His Glory, the writers’ group they had set up. It was summer now, and this was one of their fun meetings. After Carie had managed to outthink the lock, they all trooped down to the beach.

She drove the van down, carrying the firewood needed for the bonfire.

That evening was a heck of a good time. First, they ate picnic-style. Then Willow decided to climb the tree, and they all had to try it—which was thoroughly fun. She took one picture of Little Elen in the tree, looking like an elf in the trenchcoat.

She sighed in contentment: She was the mother of this group, it was her nickname. When she had decided to put teal streaks in her hair, Verita had exclaimed over facebook in a teasing tone: “Mother has dyed her hair!”

She loved that. She missed that.

She and Little Elen made up stories about eagles and dragons wreathing distant mountains in smoke. They dreamed of flying on the wings’ of eagles, far away into the distant mountains, into the distant sunset, into a distant Realm.

She and Carie kept everyone on-task and organized, for they all had the tendency to chatter so much that they forget they were here to read and talk about their writings.

She and Grania skipped up the trail to her car, since Grania had to leave early.

She remembers, now, playing Road to Lisdoonvarna on her fiddle as they all danced. These were her writers, and she was their mother.