At nine years old, Piralael’s hair had reached halfway down her back, at the time its length and unusual colouring being her most outstanding features. When she was playing handball, she wore it in a tight braid, the majority of its length covered in mud and grime a state she found herself in more often than not when playing the game.
Joe and his friends were sat on a very old bus, with frayed seat covers, graffiti on the back of the seats and a weird lingering smell that he couldn’t identify. A little after nine o’clock, the sky was only just beginning to darken, and the bus was now full. There was a buzz of noise and excitement.
It is the early hours of the morning, still dark. A strong fire fills the air of the roundhouse with thick smoke, as inside the mud walls and thatched straw roof a child is born. Caoimhé finishes pushing and almost immediately the child starts bawling, grasping at the air.