The C-word

The table wobbled while Harry doodled. He shoved a folded piece of paper under the off-kilter leg but it refused his help. He saw no solution to their homeless situation. An amateur gardener gifted with hoes, and a poet who wrote about flowers was not likely to find work in a world run by Google gods and Zucker-burghers. Continue reading

“Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs…”*

July 13, 2015

Dear Bertram,

Your petty putsch succeeded in exiling Harry and I where sending us to the gatehouse and 27 years of childish attempts to split us up did not, although the malicious introduction of Tulia came close. Yes, Harry finally confessed they met at the garden centre where you sent him for a non-existent species of earthworm for the vermi-beds. Well, brother-dear, you reap what you sow.

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Well! That’s another scratch in my old bark, Lady thought, as she pruned the cherry tree. Mr. Bittercress’ comment cut her to the core, again.

The branch revealed tight rings, like an echo. She imagined her torso chopped in two and Harry’s hurts revealed in her dendrochronology – stiff scar tissue in her muscles from the 1999 incident; arteries dammed with sclerosis from a year of impotence, (a terrible drought!); an unhealed rib from when he briefly left her for another woman. It was lovely wood though, despite its irregularities.

“Har-ry!”, she called. Holding the saw, she went looking for her beloved.