So last year I told you all about my adventures in starting my first real vegetable garden.
Not only are the vegetables back, but I'm madly researching flowers, shrubs, and trees.
I have to admit I didn't anticipate this when the subject of buying a house first came up between my life partner and me. At the time we were living in a generic high-rise apartment building. I envisioned purchasing a lovely old house with history and personality, with enough space for us each to claim a separate office room. Location was important. Public transit was important.
A garden didn't really enter into our priorities, or even our thoughts, beyond "oh yeah, we'll have to mow our lawn."
We ended up with all those things, PLUS a large urban yard with nothing in it. 1250 square feet of fertile soil, almost twice the size of the one-bedroom apartment we'd lived in for years. Blank slate, wheeeeeee!
Now, two years into home-ownership, we've become devoted plant-growers, enthusiastic and slightly less clueless than when we started.
(Home-grown carrots? Best thing ever. Even when they're shaped funny. Same for tomatoes, but I hadn't realized how much I missed the taste of real carrots....)
Honestly, I don't quite know what hit me.
A Bargain Beyond
a free short story by Kit Campbell
They told us to never go into the forest. They said that was where the wild ones lived, creatures who had once been like us, but who had abandoned civilization to seek power no mortal was ever supposed to have. It had driven them mad.
But sometimes the danger you have been warned against your entire life is preferable to the danger staring you in the face. Probable death is always more attractive than certain death.
As I left the burning remains of my village behind me, I could hear the hammering of hooves in my wake. We’d tried to defend ourselves, to make a stand, but we’d been quickly overrun.
The pounding grew louder as I fled. I plunged into the trees, not heeding the foliage tugging at my clothes. I still carried my sword in one hand, but it hung uselessly by my side. I ran on, not caring where I was going, only following the instinct to get away.
After a long time, the sounds of pursuit faded. I stopped, panting, doubling over from lack of breath. I straightened, taking in my surroundings. And that was when I saw her.
I have friends who own a dozen pretty notebooks they've never written in because a pretty notebook should be used for something special, but they write like a house on fire in a college-ruled spiral notebook. I know people who can only work on computer. There are people out there who can only write at a typewriter. I know persons of amazing and enviable focus who can write anywhere, on anything, no matter what is happening around them.
Unsurprisingly, these persons write a lot more than I do.
But I can write in pretty notebooks and leather-bound journals that shout "adventure!" I write in composition books and spiral notebooks and legal pads, on index cards and mirrors and windows... It's a wonderful eclecticism, but there's a slight problem. Just a tiny catch--