like bags of wet cement
random monday

qord, on sock heels

"So it bothered me, that night of the pitch-black sky, to find that I'd knitted a second heel. Once I'd done it and lost my young man. Twice and I'd lost my sister. Now a third time. I had no one left to lose. There was only me now.

"I looked at the sock. A plain thing. It was meant for me.

"Perhaps it didn't matter, I told myself. Who was there to miss me? No one would suffer from my going. That was a blessing. After all, at least I'd had a life, not like my young man. And also I remembered the look on Kitty's face, that happy, peaceful look. Can't be so bad, I thought.

"I set to unraveling the extra heel. What was the point of that, you might wonder. Well, I didn't want to be found with it. 'Silly old woman,' I imagined them saying. 'They found her with her knitting in her lap, and guess what? She'd turned her heel twice.' I didn't want them saying that. So I undid it. And as I worked I was readying myself to go, in my mind."

- Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale, a perfectly adequate modern gothic.


That was the best part of that whole book.


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