Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Mid-November, 2nd Lockdown, Notes: At night I drive home by porches and windows that flutter with fairy lights: the lights of Autumn-Christmas, visual cries through dense uncertainty, celebrations through doubt. How can I not smile? People have hunkered into this second lockdown and not given up, or they have said Meh and given in to the need for shine. There are decorated trees beaming out, bright strings from yard to roof, muted stars.  Bought a cheap but pleasantly coloured diary, (the turquoise side of teal) daring to think about organising next year. Walked Dog up the hill in a late autumn chill, a wave of starlings breaking overhead; the lowing sun, a bewildering array of cloud types, a sliver of waxing moon. She sniffed stories, and I the loamy aroma of rotted leaves. Home again for snacks and writing. Yule Tale 2020... brings back Barry The Shelf Elf. The pandemic has meant changes to the usual ways of doing things. Teleporting presents, holographic elves. All the tests go w

  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

Shelf-Elf Barry And The Ugly Christmas Jumper Situation Shelf-Elf Barry wished he worked on the Christmas production line. Okay the hours were long - September through to December, and you had to be ambidextrous to avoid serious repetitive strain injury, but once you got to that Christmas Eve deadline it was sherry and mince pies and eight months holiday. And no thinking required! Most production elves would look at the shelf-elf hours and scoff, of course. A mere 25 days! But they never once had to think about work, they could just do it. Barry worked all year to storyboard 25 unique scenarios, and how to get in and out of each one without being seen, and then there were the incessant training drills and fitness routines that were a core part of being on special forces shelf-elf detail. He felt like he was getting too old for this nonsense. Retirement, alas, was hundreds of years away, and Santa never sacked an elf without also turning them into stuffed toys, which wa

A Midnight Mermaid One eye opens. Lines of light drop between each beam’s shadow. That repetitive shoosh becomes sand dragging under waves. This is the beach house. Beyond the conservatory roof is the moon, it has pulled the tide high. Your feet want to be on the sand, it’s all you think of - that beach, that light, how it catches the tilt of the sea. The salt tang. The feel of sand under bare feet. So your feet go to the floor, your arms pull into a gown, your palm presses the door handle. Outside is exactly right. Silvered, doused in magic. Shoosh, shoosh. A warm press from the air. The press of your feet in cooling sand. There- There in the white break something rolls, fluid as the water, shining. Shoosh… A hand spills from the wave, a shining hand. The shock is a thrill. This is night magic, you are sure of it. You crouch; creep closer. Strands of hair flow in, flow out. A figure slender, dense with muscle.