A Witch's Trick

     Annabelle had just situated herself somewhat comfortably behind Matt on the horse when Ol’ Jack reared.  Annabelle clung to Matt, but the horse reared again, and she slid off the back landing on the dirt road.

     "Are you all right?" shouted Tobin above the frightened cries of Ol’ Jack.

Annabelle looked up from the ground to see Matt jump from the horse.  He backed up and tripped over Annabelle. 

     "Ouch.  Matt, what?" 

     His eyes were wide with fear and his mouth contorted.  He continued trying to crab crawl backwards.  The horse continued whinnying in fear.  Annabelle followed Matt's horrified gaze and yelled.

     The thing had a long, slender, black body with a yellow stripe racing down its back.  Fine hairs graced all eight of its spindly legs.  It snapped its pincers only once knowing it need not threaten so obviously.

     "What is that?" said Tobin.

     "Big frickin' spider," Annabelle said finding her feet.  "Matt, get up.  Get up!"

     Her friend lay there helplessly trembling.

     The spider the size of a small dog skittered closer to Matt.

     "Matt, get up.  It's coming closer," Annabelle said slapping and yanking at the shoulders of Matt's jacket.

     A fine hairy leg reached out to caress Matt's calf.  His face froze with an unreleased scream.

     The air throbbed with a familiar voice.  "Tell me the story, Matt Smith.  What's the matter?" said the witchy woman, her voice rich and thick like caramel.  "Don't like my pet?"

     The spider crept closer.  Too many eyes shined at Matt.

     Annabelle ran into the dining room of Georg's Song and grabbed a chair.  She had to break through a company of spectators to get back outside.  Many villagers stood looking in wonder at the sky as the vixen's voice continued pulsing in the air.

     Annabelle swung the chair at the spider, which squealed at contact.  A leg crumpled in pain.  A second blow with the chair had the large spider rolling into the street.  Annabelle closed her eyes and thrashed at the creature with the chair until she could no longer hear its squeaking cry or the crunching of its fine body.  She looked down.  The sight of the mangled body, one leg twitching, made her skin crawl.  She dropped the chair. 

     The witch gave a throaty chuckle.

     "This is not the end,” she said.

     Annabelle reached under Matt’s arms. 

     Once to his feet, Matt blew out the scream that had frozen in his throat.  He flung his limbs – arms and legs – in an erratic dance, swiping his arms to rid himself of the creeps.  "Well – I – never.  Ugh!" He stopped by the now calmed horse.

     "Are you okay?" Tobin said.

     "Better now, thanks."  Matt mounted the horse.  When he reached down to help Annabelle up behind him, he rolled his eyes. 

     She was giggling.

     "What?" he half shouted.

     "You just had your butt saved by a girl."  She laughed harder.  "You weanie."

     Haughtily Matt said, "I don't like spiders.  Now get up here, Smith."

     Tobin gave Annabelle a leg up before hopping on his own horse.

     "Nancy boy," Annabelle continued her ribbing. 

     "That was a big spider."

     Tobin snorted at the two and led the way leaving the still twitching arachnid behind.

London trip 2015: Day One 21 June

     My friend Heather and I (finally) arrived at London Heathrow via Air Canada.
     With all the Canadian celebrities there are, I've never thought much on how how I feel about Canadians -- all seemed a decent lot to me; however, after flying Air Canada, I've a new perspective, and I now lean more toward the opinion that they're cold and unfriendly.
    
     From Heathrow, we rode the Express to Paddington station   

and then went on a relaxing train ride through the English countryside to Paignton, Torbay in the southwest.  Everyone deserves to take some time from their day to enjoy the English countryside.
     We trekked, the wrong way, and then the right way to our lodgings -- the Wulfruna Hotel, a tiny, yet comfortable place run by a lady named Wendy.

     The weather was gorgeous -- sunny and warm with a lovely breeze from the harbor, which rests directly across the street from our hotel, though the 'hotel' is really more a bed and breakfast than an actual hotel.  Heather described the weather differently from me -- cloudy and cool/cold -- and did not find it so wonderful, though the differences may be found in where we each grew up: me in a valley of Virginia surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, Heather in a quaint beach town of southern California.
     Paignton is a darling place; across the harbor lies another of the beach towns this way of England called Torquay (pronounced 'tor-kee').  Many people are about, a healthy mix of locals and visitors.  Heather and I ate dinner at a tapas-style place called Olive.  For the uneducated, such as I was, tapas is Spanish for 'small meal'; the idea is to order three or four items, which are small samplings, to create a meal.  The samplings can be shared amongst everyone at the table.  The food at Olive (including the Rockslide Brownie) was delicious, but the service -- I think they forgot we were there most of the time.  At one point, waiting an eternity for our check, I almost threw some cash on the table and walked out.
      * (This next bit is a bit long and boring, so feel free to skip down to the next asterisk below.)  Let me explain the confusion and frustration.  In England, when one eats at a pub/bar, you order and pay at the bar, and then someone brings your food to the table; you may either pay as you go or ask the bartender to give you a tab.  As an American and someone not used to this, I find it all a little confusing and intimidating.  Restaurants operate as restaurants everywhere do -- you're seated, you order, you eat, you receive a check/tab and pay.  
     Olive (the place we ate at) had two options: eat on the terrace for which you would pay as you go, or eat inside for which we had to wait to be seated.  Heather and I were given a table.  Everything was going as is normal in a restaurant.  The table behind us was given a check, so we assumed, our check would also be brought to us.  I ended up going to the servery, as they called it, and paying.*
     So our biggest...um, 'adventure' since arriving in England has been the toilet in our ensuite at Wulfruna!  Apparently British plumbing is designed for the sole purpose of making spoiled Americans feel like total eejits.  We were pushing the handle on the toilet as we would in America, but the toilet, alas, was not flushing.  After reading a few articles/blogs on the internet - thank you once again Google -- I finally figured out (for the most part) how to flush our bloody toilet so that we didn't, with much shame and embarrassment, have to ask our proprietor.  So today, Monday the 22nd, as I write this, I am thankful for being able to flush a British toilet and for American plumbing.
     For those still laughing at the thought of what kind of an idiot can't flush a toilet, Google either "how to flush a toilet in the uk" or "I can't flush the toilet in the uk" -- it is a real issue!

Me and my new pal Paddington Bear

Fairy Cove in Paignton

Version 2: DF Story selection

     Then she appeared, a tall, thin woman.

     She was handsome in her severe-ness.  A linen dress stopped midway down her slender calves.  With her elegant, long fingers she drew her brown shawl tighter around her bony shoulders.  Her face was all sharp lines: her high cheekbones sloped beneath sloe, crystal-blue eyes to her pencil-thin nose, which had a slight upturn at its end.  Her wide mouth showed neither friendly nor stern, yet the only thing soft about this woman was the loose, brown curls that framed her angular face.

     Annabelle swallowed hard; she was not able to look away. 

     "I am the Forest Wife, Matt Jones and Annabelle Smith."  The woman’s voice was deep, feminine and rich, like liquid caramel.  "It is my cottage in which you find yourselves.  I hope the stew has filled your bellies."

     Annabelle pressed her lips together before saying, "The stew was delicious.  Thank you.  And thank you very much for your hospitality, but my friend and I," she broke from the woman's stare to glance at Matt, who stood stricken, "we've decided to find accommodation elsewhere."    Annabelle reached to Matt and tugged his sleeve.  He stumbled to her side.

     The woman's mouth widened slightly further into a smile.  "There is nowhere else," she said.  "You will not survive out in the night.  You will stay here.  I will take care of you."

     "Thank you for your warning, but we'll be leaving just the same."

     The conundrum was before the pair like lightening, and Annabelle gasped while Matt moved between the two women.  “Sit,” she said.

     Standing so close, Annabelle could smell the fragrance of fresh trees, petrichor and newly turned dirt wafting from the woman, who could nearly look 6'1" Matt in the eye. 

     “Please.  I am anxious to hear of your journey."

     Matt and Annabelle sidestepped the woman and made for the door, Annabelle clinging to the tail of Matt’s jacket like a leash.

     "Matt Jones, Annabelle Smith," spoke the woman. 

     Matt stopped and lingered at the door.  Annabelle found herself lingering too, shoulder bag swinging from her hand. 

     "You will stay.  Only terrible danger awaits you out there.  Stay here, where there is a warm fire and food to fill your bellies.  Listen to what I say; then tomorrow you may make your…decisions."

     Something in Annabelle's head, like a small, insistent voice softly pounded an encouragement to not leave the cottage.  Annabelle shook her shoulders and guided Matt forward with a hand on his back.

     "Thank you, but we really must be going."  She closed the door behind them.

Version 1: DF Story selection

     Then she appeared, a tall, thin woman.

     She was handsome in her severe-ness.  A linen dress stopped midway down her slender calves.  With her elegant, long fingers she drew her brown shawl tighter around her bony shoulders.  Her face was all sharp lines: her high cheekbones sloped beneath sloe, crystal-blue eyes to her pencil-thin nose, which had a slight upturn at its end.  Her wide mouth showed neither friendly nor stern, yet the only thing soft about this woman was the loose, brown curls that framed her angular face.

     Annabelle swallowed hard; she was not able to look away. 

     "I am the Forest Wife, Matt Jones and Annabelle Smith."  The woman’s voice was deep, feminine and rich.  "It is my cottage in which you find yourselves.  I hope the stew has filled your bellies."

     Annabelle pressed her lips together before quietly saying, "The stew was delicious.  Thank you.  And thank you very much for your hospitality, but my friend and I," she broke from the woman's stare to glance at Matt, "we've decided to find accommodation elsewhere."  Matt stood stricken.  Annabelle reached to him and tugged his sleeve.  He stumbled to her side.

     The woman's mouth widened slightly further into a smile.  "There is nowhere else," she said in a throbbing, steady voice.  "You will not survive out in the night.  You will stay here.  I will take care of you."

     "Thank you for your warning, but we'll be leaving just the same."

     The conundrum was before the pair like lightening, and Annabelle gasped while Matt moved between the two women.  “Sit,” she said in that throbbing, steely voice.

     Standing so close, Annabelle could smell the fragrance of fresh trees, petrichor and newly turned dirt wafting from the woman, who could nearly look 6'1" Matt in the eye. 

     “Please.  I am anxious to hear of your journey."

     Matt and Annabelle sidestepped the woman and made for the door, Annabelle clinging to the tail of Matt’s jacket like a leash.

     "Matt Jones, Annabelle Smith," spoke the woman. 

     Matt stopped and lingered at the door.  Annabelle found herself lingering too, shoulder bag swinging from her hand. 

     "You will stay.  Only terrible danger awaits you out there.  Stay here," the woman's voice became liquid caramel, "where there is a warm fire and food to fill your bellies.  Listen to what I say; then tomorrow you may make your…decisions."

     Something in Annabelle's head, like a small, insistent voice softly pounded an encouragement to not leave the cottage.  Annabelle shook her shoulders and guided Matt forward with a hand on his back.  "Thank you, but we really must be going."  She closed the door behind them.

Thankful for being one of "Sue's girls"

     In reading a book (A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty), my mind wandered to my first friend my age who became a mother.  Then the thoughts of my friend moved on to her baby shower.  LeeAnn received a gift from Sue, and in the accompanying card dear Sue wrote, "You're the first of 'Sue's girls' to have a baby."
     And with that memory I realized something I, frankly, have been too stupid to realize until this very moment (thirty-two, never too old, ever):  All my life, most of it anyway, I've wanted to belong.  To belong.  To be a part of something special.  A huge longing.  Everyone longs for that, it's very human.  I, until this moment, didn't think, didn't realize, just didn't get it, that I was (still am as it's a part of us and that won't ever change) part of something special.  I was one of "Sue's girls."
     I guess I shouldn't feel too bad for being so dense.  Jesus' disciples witnessed him feeding 5,000 people from five loaves of bread and two fish (Matthew 14:13-21).  Not long after (within the span of a year or two at least) Jesus wants to feed 4,000 people (Matthew 15:29-38), and his disciples panic and ask where they're to get enough food to feed all those people.  [Cue crickets chirping.]  They didn't get it.  Not until Jesus died and came back to life -- which is a pretty big thing.  I guess I shouldn't feel so bad it's taken me thirty-two years to get this.

     There were five of us that made up "Sue's girls":  Jennifer, Donna, me, Ashley and LeeAnn.  Sue was our babysitter.  It was her neighbors that gave us this moniker.
     I have, in the past, considered writing about those times, but I don't have the memory for it.  Most of the memories have faded.  I'd achieved about four pages once.  I'd written a poem, which I liked.
     It doesn't matter though that I can't accurately write about what was a large part of my childhood; (I went there from the age of two and a half to about fourteen.  I wasn't the first to come, but I was the last to leave.  In the end I was only there to catch the County bus.)  That time has marked our souls and shines, paints, sings into our lives, a part of who we are and what we bring into the world.  There were other children there, of course, through the years, it just happened that...well, I don't really know how it happened; I shouldn't pretend I do.
     I do know the memories are fun stories, but there's not really a way to describe the magic, and it is magic.  A special magic.  And I'm thankful to be one of "Sue's girls."

Me and Sue c. 1985

Today I am thankful for fear.

To all the writers who "brag" (whine, really) about having to whittle your work down from around 150,000+ words, I kind of want to cut you with my ax (if I had an ax; if I could even lift an ax.  Fine, a spoon.)  I struggled and struggled to make it to 50,000 words with my novel and that was by the skin of my teeth.  And though I'm stepping away from the first draft of my novel before the "revising, revising, infinitum," I still worry over how I'll keep it at 50,000 or build the word count to a greater number.

I really am terrified to go back to the story.  Not just the word count, but making it not crap, as all good first drafts are.  That it will never be more, never be better, never be....I don't know.  Not great necessarily, but "something."  Reading editing helps -- books and articles -- does dispel some of the fear.

I am thankful for the fear because without it, I wouldn't know what peace feels like.  It's a figurative sword fight me and this fear and this novel.  Really a grand adventure.