Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

In which I bring to you, in lieu of a specific Halloween story, another bit of my current Work In Progress. I picked this chapter because it fits as a short story too, and hopefully one that intrigues you to demand the rest. This isn't the first time that Ansha has been murdered, which she doesn't remember but she does seem to be getting the hang of it, and a chance of pay back too. Chapter 34 Scarcely aware of the chair to which she is tied Ansha is lost, lost in a cold fright that is elemental, that consumes like fire. She has tried to hold on, to listen, perhaps for a bird call. Sometimes she has heard birds singing, a soft wind pushing through branches. But then the door shuts. It smells in here, like butcher's slops. She has also heard a hum, a refrigerator. And a voice. ‘Tell me how that feels,’ the perpetrator asks, though they must know she cannot. ‘Isn’t this the most pain you’ve ever felt?’ A phrase swells through her, a sudden heat: I do not belong

Wednesday evening, October 16, 2019 Back at home and the light says stay outside, there are berries to gather, you can wrestle the stray branches splaying from the willow arch, the birds will call, the air will be fresh cut grass and sour strimmed hedge stems. There will be thorns in your fingers, brambles will tangle your hair. You will be happy: doing, but doing nothing except that which occurs to you. I am happy. A pot of berries on the windowsill waiting to be fetched in; I will make winter medicine from them. I am balanced on a child’s chair reaching through the bendable willow as the night tide rises and all around is deepened into blue, into black. Indoors there are jobs waiting, some of which are attended to, drifted through. No more work: what says that? Heart? Soul? Something central. Every part of me except habit agrees. Habit is pulled like the arch, pliant and alive, rooted and reaching. Later I am drinking ginger tea, I am wrapped in a blanket, blithely tired from

Bridge over the Severn River Saturday, October 12, 2019 At work and snoozy and dreaming of days off but still got time to sit and write plot notes for the mysterious WIP. Other days are walking walking walking viewing land but not finding our piece yet. Dreaming about how we would live if we did choose that bit or this but not finding the right fit, but it is fun to be dreaming, a privilege. Our entertaining limbo. And also like going on blind dates trying to pick a spouse. Sunday October 13, 2019 Awake too early because there are no days off this week, but there is coffee. Mr does the driving to avoid me grabbing a nap at the wheel. I am completing requirements for eligibility to apply for my fourth degree black belt next year. We are in Cardiff, so he goes to explore the castle. I am teasy like a toddler before finding myself in good company and one step closer to getting that fourth stripe. We drive by Exmouth on the return journey and grab some grandson time - Grandchi

As well as hunting for land, as well as finding amusement in the circumstances of care work, as well as the half-wild garden and foraging almost hunter-gatherer existence, I write stories. Little ones that I share here (Halloween and Yule, usually) and big ones that go off into books that sometimes people read. I was busy getting part two of my 'ordinary life' trilogy into order when another story barged in and demanded to be written. This story, which won't even give me a clear working title, was butting at me like a cheeky goat. At first I thought it was a return of an old theme - regrets of the dying, who then construct an afterlife that completes their life learning - and it almost is. There were no clear stakes in the story, only a learning curve, until this last week when suddenly the plot burst out, and I found that my main protagonist was not the character I thought at all, and the stakes were everything. (Part of my childhood was spent wrestling a goat, not su