Baz Baron

<u>Pocket Money</u>

Hidden in gloom-light, he shadow-shifts within the numinous cloak of darkness rippling and folding into a Samhain-shadowed mist, as it protects him within its unsettled veil.

Hood pushed back, revealing small horns twisting, like red fingers, on dark hair, falling away over his shoulders, he glides over the grass.

Drawn…[Read more]

I’m late with the congratulations – life has been frantic for a few days! Thanks so much for the prompt, @jillsted. A thoughtful piece from @libby is a more-than-worthy winner. And well done to @knickylaurelle for a splendidly acute story.

Congratulations, Libby! Well and beautifully written to you and Ath too 🙂

The Artist of Wexton

A gust of icy wind blew across the beach, and I turned to one side and pulled my coat tighter. Doing so, I realised that something was wrong, but I wasn’t quite sure what. An elderly woman stood about fifty yards to the west looking out to sea. There was something almost mournful about her, and, against my usual inclination I…[Read more]

Fabulous indeed – thanks for the link, Libby. I’ve much enjoyed Emma’s two previous novels, so this will be a cert.

(Untitled, 394 words)

The book was finished, the story told. But more importantly, the truth laid bare. Every pocket dimension of past trauma exorcised. Every chapter of his life stamped adult, checked as complete. Every fragment of what it meant to be human sorted and struck through.

Now was a new time. A beginning time. Time to rejoin the…[Read more]

Only two entries, as Athelstone rightly points out, but both were a joy insofar as they echoed some of my experiences.  Like Jill, Steve and I were but 16 and eighteen – me young enough to be banned from going on the back of his motorbike, but after four years of ‘going steady’, when  Steve asked my Dad for,  permission  to marry me his response…[Read more]

Only two entries, as Athelstone rightly points out, but both were a joy insofar as they echoed some of my experiences.  Like Jill, Steve and I were but sixteen and eighteen – me young enough to be banned from going on the back of his motorbike, but after four years of ‘going steady’, when  Steve asked my Dad for,  permission  to marry me his respo…[Read more]

Aargh – busy weekend filled with grandchildren visits and attempts to add names to a 1905 photo of a Christmas celebration family history question. I’ll get to reading and deciding ASAP.

Here I am, racked with guilt. I did sit down a couple of times to write an entry, but it just wouldn’t come. I had an idea yesterday that I liked, and it may end up as a scene in the WIP, but I had so much going on I couldn’t manage it. Apologies, it’s a fascinating idea and I should have done something. However, you have two very good entries to…[Read more]

@ Libby: Sorry not be reading an entry from you, but fully sympathise with lack of time.

Pretty much, these days.

Most of the pubs I’ve loved are long closed now. The Railway Hotel in Newbury where I first tasted Morland bitter at the grand old age of 15 (just). At 12p per pint even I could afford it. Then there was the Cambridge in Cambridge Circus. To be fair, the beer was dreadful – so bad that I drank bottled lager mainly – but…[Read more]

Sounds glorious.

Just had a short break in France where nearly all the draft beer is lager style, with the exception of a few unpleasantly-sweet dark beers. To be fair, some of the lighter ones are drinkable, especially if it’s a hot day – which it usually is.

All this talk of real ale reminds me of that magical moment when you enter a…[Read more]