In the last post: Morris and Alf returned to Sibyl's kitchen, ashamed they found no toadstools for her. Alf boasted he ate one...
Dear friends, on Tuesdays and Saturdays I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them free, or wait to buy the whole story when published. This is the last part of ‘Eerie Eve’. Next up is ‘Enchanter on the Roof.’
Eerie Eve ® James Field. Part 33
Sibyl turned back to the frying pans and flipped the eggs and bacon. Her well-padded shoulders bounced in silent amusement.
"What?" said Alf, nausea rising in his throat. "So I ate a tiny little toadstool. I'm going to be all right, aren't I?"
"Oh yes, mostly. But..." Laughter stifled her words and it took a moment before she could continue. "But if there's ever another full moon on the ninth day of September, you'll be so love-struck that you'll have to go searching for your lady troll."
It was then Morris noticed his wicker basket, still packed with toadstools, on a shelf above Sibyl's head. "Ah," he said, suspecting how she might have obtained them.
Alf followed his gaze and sunk into a dining chair. "Huh! How did that get there?"
Sibyl swaggered across the stone floor, a loaded plate of food in each hand. After placing one in front of each man, she wiped her hands on her pinafore, released her hairnet, swished her hair loose, and clapped them on their backs. "You boys care to tell me your version of why you're both so tired?" Her nose suddenly seemed longer than usual and her pupils had grown beady. She blinked at them, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Had the company of Husminx, maybe?”
"I'll tell you about it later," mumbled Morris, which was his way of saying: let's not talk about it. All he wanted was to forget the night and his cowardly behaviour as best he could.
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Best Kept Secret by Jeffrey Archer
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Did Not Finish.
This is book three in a series of seven. The principal plotline in the first two books is: who is Harry Clifton’s father? Is he a wealthy, titled upper-class aristocrat, or a low-class dock worker bum? By book three, because it’s the best-kept secret, we still don’t know. And as Harry doesn’t care, one way or the other, neither do I.
Apart from that, the storyline has developed into a soap opera, with plot elements dragging on the same as the same as the same...
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