All the Murmuring Bones

by A.G. Slatter

If I know anything for certain it’s that neither love nor hate is ever simple.

Just hang on to whatever’s solid, Óisín would say, but it took me a long time to realise he meant I had to rely on myself: I was the only solid thing in that angry sea.

They keep telling us, all these god-hounds, that magic great and small has gone, yet that’s just wishful thinking on their part. They cannot burn every single woman, tempting though it might be.

Love is a barbed hook and family the line to which it is tied. It digs deep and sometimes trying to remove it entirely does more damage than simply leaving the obstruction beneath the skin for a scar to grow over.

Still, all change is painful, cutting and cauterising yourself for something better.

And a trace of a tale is all that’s needed to find your way in the world.

you claim what you can endure from your once-life and burn the rest.

‘I don’t need you,’ I say, ‘I want you. That should be enough. That should be better because it means I’ve made a choice.’