Are You Haunted (part twenty-six) He was in the middle this time, a paper bag in one hand, his other on an ice chest, steadying it over his knees and Isobel’s. “You go out the back, and take your things.” Mrs. Lessing, loud at him, when Summers and Connolly stood to go. Isobel had tapped Powell’s arm. “Let’s see what she means.

Are You Haunted (part twenty-five) Mrs. Lessing sat on a piano bench. The piano was there, too, in a corner of the dining room. Powell felt a look askance tighten his neck, but held to the study of his dinner roll, his hand sopping gravy. Manners let you do that, didn’t they? The bench was lower than Mrs. Drybrook’s chair. Mrs.

Are You Haunted (part twenty-four) Tovey was slick and aromatic as the day before. He wore the same suit. He augmented his remark with a pinkie, spat tobacco into his teacup, spread himself across the middle of the settee—and having used his grandmother’s china for a spittoon, placed the cup and contents on her cushion. He made no room for Powell, who was tempted to say, “Scoot over, Dennis.”

Chapter Four An Odd Man Out (part thirty-two) He knew Claudie wrote in her notebooks, in the pink gingham room, upstairs. A sensible, a naturally-fitting person, married four years... Would have asked his wife at some point, “Do you have a job?” He was gone to his own job most days. Computers were surging; so much new work, by 1994, being created because of them.

The Totem-Maker Chapter Nine The Recalcitrant One (part eighty-two) I had heard the story of the Grandmother Oak, but I had not seen this proof. “The seed may sprout one day,” he said. I don’t know why, when he looked at me, I foresaw my own death in this word. He moved to his wagon, and I followed. He drew out a cap.

Are You Haunted (part twenty-three) She wore a black cardigan and a floral shift. These things, to Powell’s eyes, were not dress-up clothes. She had chosen from a kind of sympathy, he wished to believe it… That Mrs. Drybrook had thought of how poor her lunch guest was. Her inches bowed from the neck, a tall body crooked with age, buttressed by the arms of a caretaker—or the trembling in her knees might have rocked her off her feet.

The Culture We are important Our three-letter alphabet constructs our limited language The gravitational center draws our attention-seeking message The message is I am important Yet you don’t know me On an oxbow the current passes A fallen tree, submerged At a cross-angle, green, murky brown depths, hot from the sun The surface still, gnats rise Kingfishers, blackbirds, bank swallows…

Are You Haunted (part twenty-two) They had pulled into the parking lot of a drugstore, BONHOF’S on the glass in big gold script. Guy had showed Powell four fingers, counting off a list. “...you payin attention? Mrs. Drybrook wants to have a look at you in person. I got no comment on that.” But alone with a little cash to spend, Powell was taking his ease.

The Totem-Maker Chapter Nine The Recalcitrant One (part eighty-one) On my mountain, I exercised my mind discerning the morning gossip of birds I knew, then of birds I had given new names to. For Moth was not in that way educated; as to how Alëenon sages ranked fowl in their compendia, he could say nothing. I threw out seed. I would not have lured any bird to my bow, but I wanted them close for study.

Largo The new look at the end of a lengthy war A smattering of seed pearls falls like a cloudburst from the bodice And artfully torn are the missing parts from the overlay of netting Enter a plea, you have been shattered by the glass door Undone the zipper of your enemy’s purse Strode to the precipice, the catwalk’s Besought an audience and spoke of banqueting…

Are You Haunted (part twenty-one) The glass was intact. And sunlight yellowed the fog’s upper billows; it might all burn off in an hour or two. Powell, as to reject panic he had been instructed, counted his breaths. He was still keyed up from the attack. He heard a hum from below. He pulled on trousers and ran down, smacked the switch by the front door and saw the globe above the foyer light…its cobwebs and moth husks thrown into sudden relief.

Be A Helper (part nine) Of uncompensated labors, of "getting of their own back". He slipped from the covers. The tower was the place to sit and gaze, in moonlit gloom at his hills. He climbed the stairs, tiptoed through Bunting and Finch’s province, paused to frown at the elfin accommodations, finally scaled the ladder. Doing all these things, he thought of failure.

Dust Dust clots on table ends A hiving manufactory within Colluding by concealment Iota by micrometer rebuking The rag itself devolves to lint A cry in code descends in sweat and skin And bakes a cake in corners left unclean Its cumbrance plods uncounted, but to be sure Fatigued and overladen and uncaring Along moldings under beds Year by year dust…

All the Latest from Torsade! An episode of "Fellyans", with the exiles meeting Bede properly. An Eight poem, from the Eightfold Path arc. A "Tambinder Engine", with Deenie reading documents supplied by an unknown helper. A Bedlam, with Élucide and Thacker visiting a cemetery. A Totem-Maker, with the character adjusting to life alone at the Tollhouse.  My Blog Week: January 5 to January 11…

Be A Helper (part eight) “Whimbrel made it a muffin recipe.” “And why, Finch, have we not had muffins?” “Because, ma’am,” Whimbrel answered. “I don’t know what a currant is. Magic made the recipe.” “For all intents and purposes, a currant is a raisin,” said Melchior. “But Bede ought to find currants at the market...next time, knowing they're wanted." Then, as every nice person in the Fairy Realm enjoys a bit of doggerel, he supplied:

Be A Helper (part seven) Langham plied his fork in silence. Bede, too, thinking Langham deserved the sprites unfettered, and might just get them... He calmed himself over ginger cake. There was Mrs. Langham to consider, whose husband thought her not worth bringing along, nor asking what she thought herself about the woolens. And if the sprites wreaked havoc with the crops...

Cut Rough He has cut an outline rough and shattered Amid winter ice Rickracked and shark-toothed He may now be a storm cloud dotting the wastewater No solider than any other, and more alone He reflects on this from the ditch in which he lies Fallen but not blind The unseen current drains the heavens Of dirt-grey harbingers that gather, strengthening…

Dum-dum What the assembly wants to understand Everyone we are on page three hundred sixty-four The hour is near the break Watch through years of circling the outerbelt Neighborhoods go down once the charred shape of a wing shorn Plane was a moment worth eulogizing stamped On the split-levels of a small town Once, when human tragedy was big Say you’re nice…

Be A Helper (part six) Bede was alone with Langham. Langham opened: “Surprised all this fancywork hasn’t got the rot.” Jorinda’s voice came, before Bede could think of a way to slip disagreement past Langham’s suspicious ear. “Help when you’re asked, Whimbrel. With hands and feet, mind.” Ah, yes. Bede had a task of his own he could help with. “We’ve got some lovely scarves, mittens, hats, socks, and a shawl your wife might like...”

From Superstition the Pendulum Your face carried home from the scene of horror Let nature raise you a colossus that prows Prows astraddle the edge of all landfalls Clocks will crack and mirrors stop Unluckiness the hostelman calls to roost The iron ring for a knocker hangs Sounds wood and metalcraft, chock and clang And the hand that would be death’s…