scribblings

december 14

the writing

Bespelled, she joined the monotonous chant, the ceaseless march away from the school, until her familiar sunk his fangs into her arm. 
“Pay attention to what’s happening, Allie,” he hissed. “Look at where you’re going.”
She did, and barely suppressed a scream—

~

will you follow 
the hare’s tracks, visible 
only by moonlight?

~

Detective Linden dumped a stack of homicide files in front of the so-called psychic. “Go through these, then—and tell us who the killer is,” he challenged.
She set a hand on top of the pages and photos of horror, holding back a flinch. She didn’t need to actually look— she’d already seen it all, in her dreams—
Her eyes flicked to Linden’s partner, busy getting a cup of coffee. “He’s closer than you think.”

the reading

Poem: “ ‘I was the slightest in the house’ ” by Emily Dickinson (from The Language of Flowers)

“I was the slightest in the house,
I took the smallest room,
At night, my little lamp and book
And one geranium.
[…]
I never spoke unless addressed,
And then ’twas brief and low,
I could not bear to live aloud
The racket shamed me so. […]”

Short Story: “Lady With the Big Head Chronicle” by Angélique Lalonde (from Best Canadian Stories 2021)

“The lady with the big head has started a new knitting project. She has gathered mycelia from the underside of leaves, dried it, weaving in lichens hanging from pine trees, grasses dried before they harden too much to be malleable, licks of thinnest birch and hazel branches. All strung together and rolled into balls. The lady with the big head is knitting a fine gown and a warm blanket. She is knitting a scarf and toque for the mangy squirrel that lost much of its coat to mites this summer. She gathers bits of feather and tufts of fur scattered in the forest from fresh coyote kills, and along the roadside from smashed up deer and grouse. These she loops in for warmth and softness amongst the brittle structures of plant and fungus parts.”