Writing Pilates

With a screech Miss Borka slid up and over the stone parapet, before plummeting toward the monks below. Bosomella zipped after her mistress tugging at her fine gown in an attempt to slow her fall. But the monk’s strange power drew them in mad flight straight to the bulky cart they heaved toward the castle gates. Just as it appeared that they would surely splatter against the cobbles at the cart’s wheels, a thick brawny arm snatched them out of the air and set Miss Borka down by his feet.

The monk did not speak or push back his dark cowl. He simply took Bosomella’s mistress in his arms and carried her to the cart. Two looped twines hung down from the side and he slid the lady’s slim wrist into one, pulling until it snugged tight. Miss Borka laughed at her feeble bonds, until she went to snap the twine and fell screaming to the cobbles. Bosomella flitted about her head completely ignored by the floating monks and completely helpless to aid her mistress in her plight.