“You appear to be shivering”
She nodded
“Would you like to come in?”
She nodded again
Her foot was just over the threshold when he crowed
“That wasn’t, technically, an invitation”
She stopped, statue-like her foot hovering, then looked up into his face, his soul
“Does Perchta NEED an invitation?”

ew ew ew
brilliant

Flowers crane to see what the old oaks turn away from. Drips from the fruit trees cool his head and streak his dirty hands. Birds that held a vigil now hold a minutes silence. As the sun rises and petrichor is replaced by mown grass, he hopes she was right, that blood and bone are good for plants.

She should have planted it years ago, if she had there’d be a decent sapling by now. But she couldn’t part with it, the last remaining vestige of her ancestral home. The tightly closed tin sits next to her bed and fills her dreams. Botanically it’s called a fruiting body. She calls it Hope.

It's colder than he remembers, but the smell snaps him back.
He’s sweating.
It takes time to find the cupboard he hid inside, the marks almost polished away.
Above, the dusty crows rock on their perches in a draft.
They saw, they know.
His age meant innocence was assumed, that burden needs lifting.

Under the porch light, a youth holds out a leaflet.
The old man has oven gloves, sweat beading on his brow.
"Is now-" "Now's not-", the leaflet droops.
Eyes meet, mirror images of loss.
Hesitation.
"Raisin muffins, ready in five”
“Seriously?"
"Yes"
The door yawns open wider, a stomach growls.
“OK”.

And you've set an intriguing challenge...
#WriteCBC #GabrielleGriffiths

Janice peered carefully around the door. Peter, really? He was a surprise, but an easy first target. There was a pop, a silenced handgun, and a slump to the floor, followed by a scuffle as Anne tried to move his body. Janice stepped out “Can I help at all?”. Anne, startled, very nearly shot her.