In the last post: neither Alf nor Morris admitted to being accosted by a troll; some things are best left unspoken...
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. ‘Eerie Eve’ is drawing to a close. Next up is ‘Enchanter on the Roof.’ Starting soon.
Eerie Eve ® James Field. Part 32
Side by side, Morris and Alf walked back through the forest. At the rear side of the mansion, Morris took his rucksack from Alf, almost toppled under the weight, and swung away toward the kitchen door.
"I'm coming with you," said Alf. "I need one of Sibyl's potions for me headache."
So did Morris. But the kitchen smelled of egg and bacon, and he’d rather have the food than one of Sibyl’s disgusting concoctions. There had been no time for breakfast at his campsite.
"Hungry?" asked Sibyl. She glanced over her shoulder, and when she saw Alf cracked six more eggs and dropped ten extra rashers of bacon into two separate cast-iron frying pans. "Either of you fancy mushrooms?"
Morris glanced at Alf and saw his own lack of enthusiasm reflected there. "No thank you," they said in unison.
Sibyl half turned and studied them. "I see," she said. "No toadstools for me?"
Morris slid his hands into his pockets and let his shoulders roll forward. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, and flopped into a chair at the table, "but clouds covered the moon at midnight. There were no toadstools that I could see."
"I found one," said Alf, expanding his chest.
Both Morris and Sibyl stared at him.
"Only a small one," said Alf, displaying its size with his fingers.
"Yes," said Sibyl, "what did you with it?"
"I ate it."
Sibyl's eyebrows shot up and her jaw shot down. "You did what?"
"I, eh, ate it. I'm going to be all right, aren't I?"
To be continued…
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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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