Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I dive deep into the still, dark pool within. Deep enough that I wonder how long I can stay here in the depths, until I am drowned under the weight of the waters above. Deeper yet still, the answers I seek shoal, spook, and dive— elusive, quick‑silver flashes that, seen and then unseen, are ever out of grasp.

  Friday   Tabitha closed the portal and sighed. Eloise uncovered the mirror and went back to sucking on the chain of her ankh necklace. Drusilla stepped forward from the opposite end of the room to scrub away the chalk lines.             “I’m so done with this week,” Tabitha announced, wiping the blood from her nostril.             “How much longer can we keep this up?” Eloise asked. “I mean, spell quotas? They’re driving this coven into the ground.”             “It’s a shit show,” Drusilla replied, rising from her knees, “which is why I’ve done something. For us.”             Tabitha and Eloise frowned at her.             Drusilla grinned. “I booked a place in the countryside. For the weeken...