Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Today I was stuck, briefly, in traffic. Gulls were keening, a sound that goes into my soul in a good way. When did I last sit to listen to the gulls? I've been busy with good things but oh my! I am tired. I knew that I was tired this time, I have been taking more breaks, resting up, allowing myself to miss our Dog, and clearly, I had better keep doing this. I always think a quick respite will do; sometimes one needs a stretch of rest. I keep writing. Writing can be done in gentle accruals and then becomes an activity that can feed me back. I did not write a Halloween story though, not even a comforting one, instead, I am keeping the tradition of sharing some writing with you, Dear Readers. Below are two extracts from the peripherals of the novel I am slowly completing; the first is a prequel that I wrote for my own guidance so probably will not be included in the final edit, the second is an attempt at describing the story, which will probably be rewritten over and over until the

Excerpt from the everlasting work in progress, a novel which is as yet untitled, or rather has been subject to many working title changes, none satisfactory. Having our Paddock Garden land project ongoing, having many extra shifts, and a further list of stuff that must be done, it's been a while since I wrote a serious short story. There are plenty to find on here, try searching 'Halloween Tales' if you need more :-) In this chapter, Vivia realises she has lived many lives and always gets killed by something other than old age, and she is close to finding out why. [Contains one death, nothing graphic.] Chapter 31: Vivia And The Piano At the point of death you must be thankful. Vivia is surprised by this thought. She had left the house to take a walk in the spring air which is circling through warm and cool as though it has not decided whether to give way to summer or winter. High above a pegasus has enough thermal to drift; she is watching this rare sight as the words

  STINKGHOST Before the smell the most remarkable thing in the room was the Lincrusta wallpaper. A hundred years had passed since it was new and the colours had only deepened. It outshone the chandelier and the gleam of the baby grand. It was richer than the teak of the table, than the velvet chair backs, than the brass candelabra, and far more interesting than the guests who were ponderously working their way through the third course. That night the regular chef had called in sick. No one was sure who the replacement was but this stand-in was burly and the room fully booked so nothing was said, not even when the menu was subject to some unauthorised alterations. Out went the... amuse-bouche egg. Out went the... tripe terrine with the onion bread. Out went the... oily fish curry. Strong flavours, soft textures, dull colours- perked with pea shoots and grated roots, all served up in the quiet room. Conversation was muted at best, barely more than the odd grunt between bouts of puckery