Originally appeared in my newsletter from July 30th. Some bits might not make sense out of context!
This is our last week here, the removal company is coming tomorrow to pack up everything. Except for Pudding (pictured above), who is apparently allowed to travel in the airplane cabin with us.
Pudding is the enormous grey one on the right, not the normal-sized white or blue ones, so we’ll see…
We got her here in Kazakhstan, and if she can be believed, then Kazakh cats say “Meg”, rather than “Meow”.
Hopefully she likes Georgia! I’m still working my way through the first big edit of The Squared Circle. By the time you read this I’m hoping to have reached the chapter called “Five Hail Marys And A Bit Of Spice”. Speaking of which, this week’s flash story also features very large animals on the move. Say a quick prayer before you join Peter and Kate in:
Flash Fiction: Not Drowning, Running
For one moment, everything was fine. Then some invisible bastard turned the volume up, and her the whole world was screaming and shoving as the bulls jack-hammered down the street, and she pushed through the crowd to Peter’s body.
A hoof had split his skull and shattered it. The rest of his body was a leaking, lumpy mess, so it was hard to tell how badly it had been injured.
But he was definitely dead.
He had looked so happy just a few moments ago, leading the pack of men running from the gleaming brown bulls as they came into view. She’d waved to him, and he’d waved back.
And smiled.
And stumbled.
The rest of the holiday passed in a blur. She’d expected to spend those days on the beach, or holding his hand in the hospital, but that wasn’t happening and she didn’t know what else to do. Everyone was kind and taking care of things for her.
She could see in their eyes, though, that they thought her husband was a fool for being killed, and she was a fool for letting him. They were foreigners and shouldn’t have been there at all. It wasn’t a genuine tragedy, like if the bulls had gored a local.
Peter agreed with them when he visited her in her dreams. She really should have done more to stop him.
So she kept it to herself that she would be back the following year.
She returned undercover, worried they would be watching for her. But at the passport check, the policeman glanced at her photo and waved her through, even though she had cut her hair and wasn’t wearing makeup.
She checked into her hotel and freshened up, but didn’t bother unpacking.
On the day of the run, she wore baggy, unflattering clothes and too much acrid “For Men“ sports deodorant. A few of the officials gave her a second look, but she had practiced walking like a cowboy with a potato up his arse, and they let her through. Being a man was easy.
Peter was already waiting for her. He sat on the back of the biggest bull. He blew her a kiss and waved to her when she joined the group of runners.
She waved back as the bulls were let loose.
Oh, and…
Research!I loved this fascinating overview of medieval law, which explains where the expression “a baker’s dozen” might come from, that the Queen loves whales (although not Welsh ones), and that, after trial by jury was introduced in England in 1220, you could just say “”no, thanks” if you didn’t feel like it until 1275. That’s 55 years!
Listen!
I just discovered the Loremen Podcast, and it’s great! It’s hosted by two comedians exploring and discussing (and poking fun at) old legends and other oddnesses. It’s very funny but also surprisingly well-researched and presented. Check it out here!
Play!
Find out what you really think with this neat little casual game where you have to decide who dies and who gets to live!
Listen!
I feel a bit weird recommending a band based on one single song, but I keep coming back to this “moody ska/punk” banger.
Apparently only 24% of people agree with my opinions regarding babies and old people.
Once you’ve played the trolley game, let me know if you – like me – made the right decision!
