Fudge-cakes where does the time go? Can’t believe I haven’t posted for two months! Doesn’t feel that long. October, the bedrooms were refloored. Decades of crap, pulled out of the rooms, sorted, and put back. One of the rooms was my converted study, “The Cave’. Need I say more? Every nook and cranny… I have yet to go through old university files and school books… Does paper breed? I swear on a star it must…
November, I focused on Nanowrimo and juggled appointments. There’s always a never-ending list of shiz to do. Hopefully, 2022 will be less taxing and the muse can focus.
This story is dedicated to Nobbinmaug because without making a pact to participate in Friday Fictioneers this week, I would have used the “I’m hosting a Christmas party on Friday” excuse and extended my hiatus until next week.
The brewery was the oldest building in town. Her stone walls timeless, and the produce a well-kept secret in the local region. The storefront served the general public, but the good stuff the owner kept hidden in the cellar outback and only sold to the chosen in the know, just ask for Sweet Molly. The substance potent, dangerous, and illegal. One could lose their head… in more ways than one. Want hairs on your chest? Bottoms up. Want an out-of-body experience? Scoll. Rose-coloured glasses? Sip. Euphoria? Keep drinking? To see the dead? Careful what you drink.
Sweet Molly, bottling potions since 1586.