She’s not afraid of her own shadow. It’s the other one she can’t get rid of, however much she cuts the links. The doctors tie her hands down, not realising that when they’ve gone, the other shadow will raise its arms and she has to break free again. And again.
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Wow, that's brilliant, Sarah!
Discarded condoms and cigarette packets littered the path amongst the grass as the two escaped prisoners dressed as nuns stole stealthily across the bleak heathland. The first one pointed to a shaft of light coming from the clouds. Do you think it means something? Yeah, said the other, Emergency Exit.
The Preacher Madoc stands in the high pulpit, arms raised and his voice punching the air. He is a fire and brimstone speaker. Behind him his shadow, soft-edged, arms raised the same, but a gentler picture is what Dilys thinks she sees there, her ears covered against the hard preaching.
Myrddin’s shadow has a life of its own. That’s what Myrddin thinks. Sometimes it seems to him that the roles are reversed, that Myrddin copies what his shadow does, dances after the cut-out dark silhouette of himself. He thinks if he stops, maybe his shadow will run on without him.
What a story. Omigod.
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