My Favourite Plum


Yesterday brought me much yay.

After stressing for the last few weeks about what I should work on next, a story came to me last night.

To be fair, it has been simmering quietly on the back brain since I finished hob, but I never paid it much attention. I had so much other stuff to do. At the time I wrote a brief scene, and then forgot about it.

Last night I dreamed about it – about runaways and seas and stilt cities and strange parties and tea shops and selkies and sea witches and ghosts and love and fear.

So today I dug up that little scrap, and jotted down a few more paragraphs and wondered, and smiled.

Pelimburg was a city of rain and mist and spray.

Felicita furled her umbrella and leaned back against the salt-bitten wall, feeling paint flaking against her back. The chips fell to the ground, faded and pink. Through the veil of sea-rain, she could see the hazy figures of people running along the promenade, their hands over their heads, or black ribbed umbrellas snapped open against the deluge.

Past them the sea roared, grey and green. The distant white cliffs were invisible, shrouded by the rain and the tempest ocean. Somewhere, the family house hid in the mist, glowering down from the chalk cliffs, dead windows gazing down into the swirling water. And in that house, right now, her mother would be fretting, wringing her hands as she stalked the corridors, calling her name.

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