They had to blame somebody for the bad luck, and a woman with no power or influence or family ties was convenient.
The crops had failed and there was no way that could just happen: there had to be a science to it, so they invented one.
Did she have marks on her that might make her less human? Evidence. Was she underweight? Ugly? Did she keep cats? Proof.
She was a witch.
And witches were scary.
But they were reassuring compared to the alternative of an uncaring universe, one where the crops could fail for no reason at all.

She was burning: her skin blistering to runny red under their gaze, her hair frizzing and frying in the oil exuding from her scalp.

She wished she could go up in flames, explode, a shower of sparks and smoke. She wished she could be spectacular, however briefly.

Instead, she smouldered, unremarkably consuming herself from within. An acrid smell and a sullen glow the only indications of her searing pain.

What was surprising was that the freezing glances that came her way, the cold water poured over every attempt she made to be accepted offered no relief, but fanned the flames.

They went to find the unicorn. They were certain that it existed. Too many travellers had returned with matching descriptions for it to be a case of mistaken identity.

They’d even put it on their coat of arms.

Unicorns stood for something: wonder, magic, seeing the beauty of the world.

They went north first, in great ships. One day, they saw a unicorn’s horn emerging from beneath the waves. Perhaps the horse was amphibian!

No, it was some strange, ugly creature, fooling them with a twisted tusk.

If there were no unicorns, they could see no beauty in the world.

I walk around the park, same way every day. My feet hurt. My mouth is sore. Can’t shake the weight.

I hardly see the trees. Grass? They say we have to keep off it.
I see children running, rolling over and over. I think I ran and rolled like that, once…

Dogs, let off the leash, race each other but return to their owners, knowing they’re better off tame.
Not me.
Ah if that were me…
If they let me off this leash,
Set me free from walking round the park in aching feet, mouth sore…
How I would run.

The stench of burning wool was filling the air as the hearthrug smouldered beneath the imp who’d leapt from the flames.
“HUNGRY!” It spat in a voice that crackled.
“I’ve soup. It’s thin but you’re welcome to share”
It hissed in horror. The rug blazed.
“I’ve kindling outside…?” Matthias offered. His guest glowed with greedy glee.
Matthias ran and drew the bucket up from the well, soundlessly.
Returning to the smoke-filled cottage he declared “No guest is offered dinner without something to wash it down!”
With that, he doused the imp. It hissed, writhed and died.
Matthias ate his soup.

I wasn’t looking for eggs, and I certainly hadn’t expected to see any here, but there it was, tucked between the books.
Nobody else had been in my attic for years, let alone hidden an egg. I had no memory of placing it there myself.
It was mauve, slightly bigger than an avocado. When I touched it, the books on either side – a collection of feminist essays and a fantasy novel concerning enchantments – ruffled their pages indignantly. I left, quickly.
Returning to the attic some weeks later, I discovered a pamphlet about enchanted feminists. Eggshell fragments crunched beneath my feet.

In the moments just after it had happened, she was breathless, wild eyed, face twisted into something like a grin.

She’d killed it.

It had come out of nowhere; its breath hot, stinking in her face, eyes rolling wildly, fangs bared.

There had been no time to think. Had she paused, those fangs would soon have pierced her flesh. She wiped the blood from the knife she had brought with her, resheathing it at her belt.

The monster’s body lay sprawled across the path.

She continued her journey, cautiously, knife in hand.

Who knew what other monsters she might meet?

They were noisy little bastards, he thought, as he overheard their “music” from the street. These bleeding-heart, warm-and-fuzzy types might pretend they liked that godawful din, probably just to impress their lefty mates – after all, they couldn’t LIKE it – but he knew the rallying cries of a turf war, the pointless bravado of oversexed young males intent on getting to the top, no matter what the cost, when he heard it. These do-gooder types could turn a blind eye to the violence, preferring the cosy narrative of “urban beauty” to the truth, but he wasn’t fooled:
He bloody hated sparrows.

Thanks to Shonaleigh for the idea.

(This is not a story about Shonaleigh.)

Thumbing through the Power Animal Divining Cards for inspiration, she wondered what her spirit guide would be: perhaps the otter: playful and coquettish, the snake: wise and otherworldly. Or the wolf. Yes. Intelligent, intuitive, independent. That sounded about right.

The three-for-two fresh herb deal at the supermarket hadn’t included white sage, so some wilted parsley was smouldering reluctantly in her incense dish.

She cleared her mind and waited for enlightenment.

She ignored the recurring vision of a spoiled lapdog, greedy for attention, full of self-importance. Yapping, crapping and incapable of even basic self-care.

That was not how she saw herself.

Inspired by the Google Doodle celebrating 63 years of the Peak District National Park. Made me wonder what was there 64 years ago…

Of course, the people of Derbyshire were badly hit by the Second World War. The City of Matlock, with its shining marble spires, blue and yellow tiled walkways, gardens, theatres, galleries: all destroyed by German shells.
It was a controversial decision not to rebuild that vast city, but the community, what was left of it, all mucked in, hiding rubble in misshapen hills, disguising the jagged walls of the ruined palaces as natural outcrops, burying the bleu-jaune tile fragments in the deepest bomb crater.
Never is it spoken of now, the peak of Derbyshire’s glory. The loss was too great.