Heat index where I am—113.
I watch the Summer Solstice at Stonehenge, and the people in the I see in the solstice cam are wearing hoodies, blankets, and scarves. I feel the sun on my back as light streams into my window because an ice storm killed the magnificent tree that once shaded half the house. Honestly, it’s hard to feel the magic of the longest day of the year (in this hemisphere) when it feels like extreme temperatures are stripping everything away. Well, everything that makes the world habitable for us humans.
But I have found magical things nonetheless.
For instance, I’m listening to BBC Sounds’ series Witch. My only complaint about the series is the lack of show notes. India Rakusen talks to authors, references art and history, but you’ll have to listen with a pen and paper nearby (good luck if you’re driving!) because none of it is listed in the show notes. That complaint aside, it is a terrific series, perfect for Halloween in June. (That’s right. Some folks like Christmas in July. I prefer to remind myself of the joys of October. Someone on the internet calls it Junoween. Silly. But I’m here for it again this year.) Anyway, listen to the podcast!
I used to include two or three new drawings in every newsletter. Now that I’m taking care of my dad, this feels like an impossible goal. But I have made “fortune tellers” for my Patrons. They’re just for fun. You might know them by the less flattering name of “cootie catcher.” I don’t remember calling them that when I was in school.
Here is an excerpt from a novel I’ve been serializing. This is backstory not included in the final draft. It has to do with the character of Tas, whose mother experimented with various forms of life.
The Book of Astrophilia (a deleted scene)
Beatrice waited until the man vanished into the woods. It took effort, her wings weren’t strong enough for her weight, but after a few tries, she sat on the windowsill, her fur shimmering in the moonlight. She knew what was going to happen, but not having been given the power of speech, she’d been unable to warn anyone.
Though as she listened to the breeze through branches of the plum tree, she concluded speaking out wouldn’t have made any difference. There comes a point when words mean little to humans. She’d seen this enough in her few years of life.
Things had to be decided though. Weary and not entirely sure her next phase of life was going to be as long as she’d hoped, Beatrice turned back to the empty room and jumped to the floor. The girl would come back, of course. That she didn’t question. But the larger humans, the adults, were another matter.
Beatrice moved across the room and nudged the door open with her nose. She used her wings to help her down the stairs, a passing thought of the girl’s arms lifting her up and helping her made her smile, or rather it made her smile as best a creature like her could. She was going to miss the girl.
The front door opened easily. The man hadn’t locked it. He forgot such things. So unwise for a human in his position. Beatrice lopped onto the front steps. Her long ears took in many sounds. She heard more than the humans could in the thick of the woods. There were dragonfly wings and wandering midnight deer. There were sleeping lizards and hunting wolves. Ah. The wolves. Beatrice listened especially keenly to them. Then came the crack and the sound of a struggle. Beatrice sniffed the air and tasted a hint of blood. Not too much, but enough.
She’d leave on her own terms. The girl would kick up a fuss, and while Beatrice couldn’t change much, she could avoid that fate. Better for the girl not to have to decide between her pet and her future.
Beatrice headed out of the garden, and where each of the humans had gone north, she went south. A vast wilderness stretched out before her, and she was ready for a new life.
Normally, I share a book rec. But what books have I read since Dad moved in? Not a one. But in my to-be-read pile waits this—The Ghost: A Cultural History. It’s perfect for Halloween in June. And since I haven’t read it yet, I’ll shall resort to quoting a review that quoted the author quoting a novel by Hilary Mantel. “You don’t get a personality transplant when you’re dead.”
Indeed. (Can ghosts read books? Asking for a friend…)
Thank you for reading! This newsletter is free, but those who wish to can support my Patreon. Get fun things in the mail—like art or fortune tellers. Happy Solstice.