Can’t say too much; indeed I don’t know too much but have just found out I’ve been highly commended in a national short story competition for my story the Bone Queen. I am so delighted – I find short stories very hard to write and this tale about a rag and bone queen is probably my favourite of all the stories I’ve written. I believe this now means it will be published.

Most of my recent posts have been private; sadly this world just sometimes knocks me sideways and the proverbial black dog needs her outlet. The commendation has given me a much needed confidence boost to continue with the writing – I may never be able to make a living from it but it is an absolute joy to know that other people value your words.

Part of the inspiration for the story was the poem The Circus’ Animals Desertion by Yeats, particularly the final verse:

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

So worth reading the full text.  The other poem that wove it’s way in was The Vampire by Kipling – ‘…to a rag and a bone and a hank of hair, (we called her the woman who did not care)…’.

So on this happy note my Whitby preparation is now in full swing – wardrobe contents analysed, button stability on certain items checked (Spin Doctor – wonderfully pleasing clothes; woeful button attachment). I even have the cutest little steampunky boots, below, from Hush Puppies children’s range of all places (the joy of tiny feet). Flat that opens out onto East Cliff beach. Chips and wine from the Hatless Heron. Cake and books at Becketts. Breakfast at Java. A giant Saturday afternoon drink fest with some fair minded friends in the Elsinore. And all the fun and wonder of the Spa on Friday night, where I can’t wait to see Bad Pollyanna.

Steampunk booties

Steampunk booties

Heaven indeed.

(Just 3 weeks of work to ignore then…!)


Anxiety of the Good Girl

They say I am sweet,
But what they say is nothing new.
See me.
Read the things I’d never say
And know the things I wouldn’t dream to-do
And that is how you can tell a person.
A bird that cannot fly with
Self inflicted wounds
Do you dare to Love ALL of me?
Are you strong enough to want ALL of me?
Phrases and words won’t keep me warm.
And the quotes that I say and the morals that I keep
Will not hold to me to this world.
My ideals are too big for my body.
They would make you bend under the pressure.
So let them whisper their, razor lined words of wisdom.
Because in the straight jacket of ideals that I adorn
I to the world am invisible….

Tabitha Castillo

Waiting for Grief

The Sheep in the Ruins 

By Archibald MacLeish


for Learned and Augustus Hand

You, my friends, and you strangers, all of you,

Stand with me a little by the walls

Or where the walls once were.

The bridge was here, the city further:

Now there is neither bridge nor town—

A doorway where the roof is down

Opens on a foot-worn stair

That climbs by three steps into empty air.

(What foot went there?)

Nothing in this town that had a thousand steeples

Lives now but these flocks of sheep

Grazing the yellow grasses where the bricks lie dead beneath:

Dogs drive them with their brutal teeth.


Can none but sheep live where the walls go under?

Is man’s day over and the sheep’s begun?

And shall we sit here like the mourners on a dunghill

Shrilling with melodious tongue—

Disfiguring our faces with the nails of our despair?

(What dust is this we sift upon our hair?)

Because a world is taken from us as the camels from the man of Uz

Shall we sit weeping for the world that was

And curse God and so perish?

Shall monuments be grass and sheep inherit them?

Shall dogs rule in the rubble of the arches?


Consider, Oh consider what we are!

Consider what it is to be a man—

He who makes his journey by the glimmer of a candle;

Who discovers in his mouth, between his teeth, a word;

Whose heart can bear the silence of the stars— that burden;

Who comes upon his meaning in the blindness of a stone—

A girl’s shoulder, perfectly harmonious!


Even the talk of it would take us days together.

Marvels men have made, Oh marvels!—and our breath

Brief as it is: our death waiting—

Marvels upon marvels! Works of state—

The imagination of the shape of order!

Works of beauty—the cedar door

Perfectly fitted to the sill of basalt!

Works of grace—

The ceremony at the entering of houses,

At the entering of lives: the bride among the torches in the shrill carouse!


Works of soul—

Pilgrimages through the desert to the sacred boulder:

Through the mid night to the stroke of one!

Works of grace! Works of wonder!

All this have we done and more—

And seen—what have we not seen?—


A man beneath the sunlight in his meaning:

A man, one man, a man alone.


In the sinks of the earth that wanderer has gone down.

The shadow of his mind is on the mountains.

The word he has said is kept in the place beyond

As the seed is kept and the earth ponders it.

Stones—even the stones remember him:

Even the leaves—his image is in them.

And now because the city is a ruin in the waste of air

We sit here and despair!

Because the sheep graze in the dying grove

Our day is over!

We must end

Because the talk around the table in the dusk has ended,

Because the fingers of the goddesses are found

Like marble pebbles in the gravelly ground

And nothing answers but the jackal in the desert,—

Because the cloud proposes, the wind says!


Because the sheep are pastured where the staring statues lie

We sit upon the sand in silence

Watching the sun go and the shadows change!


Listen, my friends, and you, all of you, strangers,

Listen, the work of man, the work of splendor

Never has been ended or will end.

Even where the sheep defile the ruined stair

And dogs are masters—even there

One man’s finger in the dust shall trace the circle.


Even among the ruins shall begin the work,

Large in the level morning of the light

And beautiful with cisterns where the water whitens,

Rippling upon the lip of stone, and spills

By cedar sluices into pools, and the young builders

String their plumb lines, and the well-laid course

Blanches its mortar in the sun, and all the morning

Smells of wood-smoke, rope-tar, horse-sweat, pitch-pine,

Men and the trampled mint leaves in the ditch.


One man in the sun alone

Walks between the silence and the stone:

The city rises from his flesh, his bone.