With the clocks changing for summer time, the Australian Writers’ Centre challenge for October’s Furious Fiction was to write 500 words or less in 55 hours which needed to:
- be titled ‘The Lost Hour’
- contain the phrase ‘It was lighter’
- include a sentence naming three colours
You can read the winning and shortlisted entries here.
I was reading Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market recently, which got me writing something else, but it also made this uncanny transaction occur to me…
***
“Buy a song for sixpence and pocketsful of time,” the market woman crooned.
Luc wouldn’t call her a witch, even in his thoughts. Witches weren’t safe to deal with – everyone knew it – but he needed coins. Now. Today. Before the dance.
“What’ve you a fancy for, young sir?”
Silver needles flashed in her lapel as she stroked the cloth on the bench between them. She wasn’t old and black-clad and bent, like he’d expected, and no grey streaks marred her russet hair. Still, her tanned skin was loose on her, as if it was a size too large. As if she could cast it off, like a coat. As if–
He swallowed hard. He wouldn’t think about it.
“I need–”
“A stolen moment?” She handed him a purple pocket stitched with copper threads, plump as a ripe red pomegranate. It was lighter than it looked. “No? Wisdom, then? I can sing you a song of such good sense every choice you make for a sennight will be the right one.”
“Affie said you pay for time.”
Her brows went up but she nodded. Luc let out a breath.
“As do others.” She looked across the green. “Yon brewer needs strong lads to load his carts.”
Luc didn’t turn. He pushed back his sandy hair and said, “You just want time, though? Not work?”
“There’s always a market for time.” She rested one ringed hand on a pile of cut cloth. “People pay for a moment’s peace, or a few minutes to themselves. There’s not enough hours in the day.”
“How much? How much will they pay?”
“I’ll give you thruppence for ten minutes.”
Thruppence would buy him a cup of cider and a red ribbon to give Bessie Croyland when he asked her to dance. Thruppence was enough.
“For just ten minutes?”
“For ten minutes of hope.” She lifted a circle of primrose pale cloth.
“What would you give for an hour?”
“An hour?” Her gaze raked him. “I can take an hour, but you ken it will take an hour?”
Her gaze darted across the green and this time he looked as well. The Croyland sisters were watching Affie and Rom work and sweat, rolling barrels in the hot sun. Luc shivered.
“How much?” he demanded.
“Two shillings,” she said, “for an hour.” She laid down the primrose yellow cloth and picked up a large piece of green silk, shot through with blue flame, like the flash of feathers under a magpie’s wing. “For an hour of opportunity.”
He nodded and heard the first three notes of the witch’s song, but the hour was lost before he heard anything more. He came back to himself, clutching two shillings, with Bessie Croyland’s laughter ringing in his ears. She walked by, holding Rom’s hand, her dark hair falling loose.
The witch set the final gold stitch to close the bulging green pocket.
“It doesn’t matter what others will pay,” she said, “some hours are priceless.”
I’ve had two weeks to recover and I’m ready for my close-up… so here’s what I got up to at 
A