Miracles have plagued this town …
So when the blacksmith saw Father drop his crutches, and go running bow-legged down the street, he simply spat and swore; hammering his fizzing curse into folds of hot metal. Later a passing carter found our old man cowering in a fox hole. It cost some apple brandy down both their necks before we discovered Mad Tom was the cause. Father had come upon the moon-calf running naked through an orchard and surmised that the days of the Free Spirit were come again. Who could blame him? We still all shiver in the shadow of that sick season which set men and women to aping the ways of animals and brought forth a flood of soldiers from the Bishop’s seat. To this day the trees of the forest are torn and bent from the weight of the hanged, the wells not yet free of stench. Yes, miracles have plagued this town.
Andy S. Barritt is a poet and writer based in the East Midlands, U.K. and currently a part-time student on the MA Creative Writing course at Nottingham Trent University. Apart from reading and writing he enjoys ornithology and wuxia movies. He is on Twitter: @AndySBarritt