‘You are so lucky.’ Deirdre refills her glass with the wine I bought her for Christmas. She plops two ice cubes in, the liquid splashing on my shirt. ‘I wish I had your appetite.’
Without taking my eyes off of her, I grab a big roast potato from my plate and shove it whole into my mouth. #WriteCBC

This is so kind! Thank you so much 🖤 It’s inspired by the Cellardyke harbour (here in sunnier times)

This harbour, too, was made with grey stones a century ago. The wind rose, reeking of salt and rotten seaweed, but the boats stood still. Among the white linens, a sailor's rope strangled one of the washing lines, bleeding. From the stones came a grating sound, a whistle. An exhalation. #WriteCBC

My partner @crfirvine.bsky.social gifted me a place to this course and I’m so so so excited! ✨ cannot wait!

Photos are: baroque column with cherub, baroque altar for St Anthony, baroque altar for the virgin; church of Santa Chiara

Anne hid her necklace under the black sweater. She looked at his ancestors’ portraits as she walked the Tudor room, feeling all their tiny eyes on her. Their malice radiated off the canvases as if to guide her towards their monster.
Her Henry.
Some steal for coins and some for revenge.
#WriteCBC

Barnabas was met by the last pair of eyes he wanted to see. They had not changed since he last saw them in 1801. They were too observant and made him feel altogether too mortal. He had tried to make his body forget them – forget her. ‘Monsieur La Morte,’ she smiled. ‘You owe me a life.’ #WriteCBC

Nonna’s house smelled of fried baccalà and dust, and when I went to open the window, she swatted my hand away.
She sat me down. ‘What do you know of fattucchierìa?’
Witchcraft? I laughed.
When her face didn’t change, mine lost its smile and all colour.
‘Allora, we start with salt…’
#WriteCBC

Always as I close my eyes. A cold breath caressing my face. I smell rosemary and blood. I cannot move unassisted - my leg. My heart races, I pray.
It calls me. I open my eyes. It is a darkness I have known before. Around her neck, written in diamonds,
‘Your head is next, Henry’.
#WriteCBC

It felt wrong to be able to smell the acrid sweat of the Brothers of St Domenico’s, but it was worth it to watch them take down the Baptist’s painting at the corner of the Palazzo. The Ionian Sea sang over the brothers’ ‘Credo’ and clouds obscured the disgraced Prophet. I was a free woman. #WriteCBC

Bodies everywhere. I opened the door and there they were, spread like poppies in June. Velvet chairs were laid haphazardly on a mosaic floor. I could smell sex and incense in the air – and something burnt.
I was half afraid to ask and half afraid to know: who the hell was T. O’Shanter? #WriteCBC

Ahaha fantastic!

Where is this from??? 😮

Of course! ❤️ and thank you Mary! 🙊

Subscribed! (But a bit embarrassed it took me so long!)