Literature
Miss Myrtle Bell
She was a bare-footed witch on a hermit island anchored at the bottom of the world. In winter, when the pale sun hid behind the veil of the season, she would leave her cottage – Harbour Board blue – and go to the water's edge, where the ocean's vast currents washed up fairy-light shells from faraway lands. There were other treasures too. Above, on the cliff top, the farmer's sheep grazed, not caring that on the rocks below lay one of their own, a red stain spreading from stomach and heart. Nobody saw it fall. Born from the resin of a fossilised century, she wandered through the next one with moonstruck eyes and a mind not there. No modest veil for her; the whole town knew her business. On summer nights, when she walked past the cars parked at the Cape, they would turn up the lights and watch her go down to the boneyard on the beach to pick through fish nets and overturned hulls. Once, she found an orange buoy and put it on her porch, under the altar. The night visitors took it when
