Mudlarking

Clay Pipes

Modern day mudlarks who shift through the mucky shores of the Thames recover a lot of pieces of clay pipes. When tobacco smoking first came to  London it was a costly endeavor. Consumers loved the stuff but used it in small amounts in the tiny bowls of clay pipes. These pipes had long stems to cool the smoke before it reached the mouth. They were easy to lose and dispose of and extremely breakable.  The tide of the Thames was rough on the objects in it’s grasp but it’s mud acted as an anaerobic preservative. The pipes might break but they stuck around for centuries.

Photo- Nicola White

I Love Maps

The internet has changed the way we find things in remarkable ways. I’m still a little leery of following Google’s directions without looking at the full map myself before I get into my car, but if I need to find places that existed 200 or more years ago good tools are available. Two of my favorite interactive maps are clear to read zoomed in and easy to find specific places. 

Agas map 1561 (above) not only has clear close-ups but finds places by category and gives you a list of related sites to further your research. https://mapoflondon.uvic.ca/agas.htm

Darton’s 1814 Stranger’s guide lets you zoom into sections to show specific streets, squares and landmarks https://mapco.net/darton1814/darton.htm

CHANGES

TheNightMail is changing!! You may have noticed the new WordPress theme. But wait, there’s more!

TheNightMail was originally created as a show place for Becky and Robin’s short fiction related to their screenwriting project, FREAKTOWN. It soon morphed into a straight out site for Flash Fiction accompanied by carefully curated images. It was not long before poetry, particularly haiku, made an appearance. More recently, there have been guest author contributions as well. Yes, evolution happens.

Now TheNightMail is changing again. Robin and Becky have returned to decades old writing habits and are producing novels and novellas under TheNightMail imprint. These farcical romance and mystery stories have historical settings, so you will find new sections on the blog devoted to “Regency”, “Flash Facts” and “Publications”. We will still endeavor to punch out flash fiction pieces for your consideration but hope you’ll click around the site and see what else is available in longer form.

Thanks for reading.

Image from flickr commons

Just Before Sunset

The waxing moon hung in a diaphanous cloud.  He remembered to look down just before he flew over the river.  There she was, looking up.  He could count on her.  Every evening, at sunset, looking up; looking for him.  Once she waved and seemed to beckon him.

As a youngling, he’d considered trying to meet her, his faithful watcher.  But one of the elders, his grandfather or a great uncle, had warned him off.  “Not a good idea.  Women like that are untrustworthy.”

As he grew older, he grew to understand why.  She was a human.  He was a crow.

Image by Robin Anderson

Tom

Once there was a man on a commune in the Canadian wilds. His name was Tom.

One misty moisty morning, we jumped in my Volkswagen bus and hightailed it for the California desert. He was running—I was in love.

A year we spent squatting on that mining claim in the Chocolate Mountains, living a whiskey fantasy, surviving on beans, rattlesnake, and the kindness of others.  I sang for tips in the small-town bar. He got by on charm.

 Finally Tom tired of me-it was inevitable. I returned to my Canadian island. He kept running.

Don’t tell my husband, but sometimes I think of him still.

By Mollie Hunt

photo by Ajay-Karpur on unsplash

Female Trouble

She was leaking.  Again.  It seemed only to happen in public.  At home it was never a problem.  She could sit for hours reading or working out mathematical equations.  Even when staring at the clouds or stars and theorizing, there was no seepage.

But out shopping, at tea, in a ballroom and especially at the subscription library, she had only to open her mouth and the trickle, then torrent, of her words, opinions and knowledge flooded the air.

Her intelligence on hideous display and before she could ratchet her jaw shut, the whispers began all round.

“Bluestocking.”

Image: Portrait of MME De Graffigny by Pierre Mignard via flickr commons

Gift

 

“Take the plaque—the one with the cats on it. I know you love cats.”

She paused. I expected her to punctuate the statement with a swig from the vodka jar she kept by her side, but she didn’t.

“And those birds, the origami ones—take those too. My friend made them specially for me. My son will just throw them away…

…when I’m gone.

The unspoken words echoed through the silent room.

“They’re coming tomorrow at ten o’clock,” she whispered. “The Right to Die people.”

All I could find to say was, “Thank you.”

Story by Mollie Hunt

Photo by Soroush Zagar at Unsplash

1816

It would be the fight of his life.  A duel but not over a woman or an accusation of cheating at cards or even because some Pink of the Ton had cast aspersions upon the arrangement of his cravat.  No, it was far more serious.  The control of his fortune, his title, his estate, his very future was at stake.  And he had no choice of weapons, was unarmed, unmanned, with only his twelve year old brother as his second.  But he must face the challenge.

Bile rose in his throat as he turned to confront his opponent.

“Hello, Mother.”

Embellishment for Haiku

Image:  Portrait of a Young Gentleman via flickr commons