Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

For this year’s Yule Tale, being short on time due to obsessive novel writing and that lifestuff, I decided to grab outside inspiration from the www.plot-generator.org.uk website. What I got was delightful nonsense, most of which I have kept, with a tweak here and there which was a bit like when children decorate a xmas tree and their parents maybe move a bauble or two after they have gone to bed because aesthetically it is the right thing to do. Presenting Yule Tale 2019: Two Surly Uncles Laughing To The Beat Sparkle looked at the shiny cup in her hands. It was full, which felt like mockery. She walked to the window to reflect on her surroundings. She had always loved Yuletown’s bleak wintry fir trees; they encouraged her to indulge in feeling mournful. Pines, pining - there was surely a connection. Her eyes narrowed, seeing something move in the distance. Someone? That would be a rare occurrence in this unpopulated zone!  As she peered and the figure drew nearer she recognise

Diary Friday 1 November 2019 Might be a little hung over. Also there are boring jobs to do on computers. We get through it. Thank you coffee. Saturday 2 November 2019 Taking the early shift, I drive on a nearly deserted road through a wild storm. Surface water is travelling, like gigantic sliver-toothed silvery flatfish. I love the mild peril of my travelling. At work we dare the storm again, visiting Trelawney Garden Centre which is draped with Christmas delights. We lark about with sparkles and elf hats. We lunch. We make it back through deep puddles to watch festive films under the whirl of disco lights. Wednesday 6 November 2019 Another early morning, in which I drive towards a rising sun, a levitating half-circle, licking coffee from the corners of my mouth. Dog fidgets in the boot-space, keen to get to Exeter and jump in a river. She is thwarted as our routine has changed and now Granma Grace is up early too, wanting a shower, and takes a nap not a lie-in, in he

I had swapped my Granma-care day, necessitating another early start. Light snores greeted my arrival so although Dog had stayed home I took some air by the river. Heavy rain had made it fierce. Droves of geese and swans made grumpy looking progress against it. Winter cold leached into a brisk wind; maybe fallen leaves had stolen the warmth to make their colours. I had put my camera away in order to not view the world always through a lense, nor composed into scenes. I let it jumble. But the lone swan that Granma Grace has named Derek sat contentedly in a sizeable puddle was an image I wanted to hold on to, and share. 'See,' Derek may have been saying, 'here is an example of using one's energy not for fighting the old river, but for allowing the universe to bring you a puddle sanctuary.' 'I was thinking more - make the most of what is available.' Derek sifted water for snacks, unbothered by thoughts, whereas I went to pour coffee with a tumbling mind.

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