12.09.10
Posted in Writing at 10:27 am by Beau
100 Words Entry – Day 8
It was after the fact when Miriam finally confessed, by that time having opened her own small bakery on Draught Lane, a few streets down from the old neighborhood. She was surprisingly forthcoming with us, feeling that the secrecy and paranoia that was built into every stone and brick of our district was strangling us and any future we thought we might have. So she talked about The Women’s Council, a group of local women who took it on themselves to provide help and support to the families of our streets, without the approval or knowledge of the district governors.
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12.07.10
Posted in Writing at 3:24 pm by Beau
100 words Entry – Day 7
Miriam Foyle was the first hint at what we eventually came to know as the other, more true trade of Mr. Gunn. Miriam, who had grown up with us on the streets around the district, fell into trouble when she started seeing one of the Brookhouse boys on the sly. Her father had long since disappeared in one of the factory disputes and her mother attentions were focused on working the long hours at Gables Merchantile & Exchange to put simple food on the table. So Miriam took the opportunity to follow her foolish whims, leaving us all, fatefully, behind her.
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12.06.10
Posted in Writing at 4:37 pm by Beau
100 Words Entry – Day 6
Because Mr. Gunn’s shop was at the corner of Porro Lane, he was alloted an alley with a side entrance to his shop and a back staircase up to his small rooms above. It was at this entrance that women in trouble would appear, typically at dusk when there was just enough shadow to hide their faces without being conspicuous. Those of us lucky enough with windows along the street, and inattentive mothers and aunts, would perch on the sills of an evening to watch for any comings or goings after his shop had closed and his real business began.
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12.05.10
Posted in Writing at 8:46 pm by Beau
100 Words Entry – Day 5
Mr. Gunn always approached the Black Garden with a dusty list, scratched over with his slanting, black inked script, detailing exactly what he needed from that corner of the yard. He carefully chose the berries, leaves, and pieces of gnarled bark according to his list, placing each in its own bowl or small, opaque vellum envelope. He would then gather the bowls and envelopes into a worn, wooden tray with a twisted iron handle and wind his way back from the dark, back corner of the garden, towards the dark of his house, and his waiting guest in the parlor.
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