Orla's Corner
She doesn’t collect secrets. They just find her.
A slip of handwriting in a puddle. A letter never posted. A whisper written in chalk behind the grocer’s bins. Orla copies them all in her notebooks, page after page, without judgment. She says it’s just in case the right person ever comes looking.
To the Notice at the Line
Follow the path where
the dock-leaves lean,
Past nettles that whisper
of what might’ve been,
Count two alders
(the second wears thread),
Step where the sparrows
fluttered and fled.
Find the post where
the chewing gum clings,
Where someone once nailed
a bell without rings,
There on the side,
in rust and in pine,
Hangs the first of the words
from the Wishing Line.
Don’t stare at the smudge.
Don’t tug on the nail.
The wind knows the rest.
Let it carry the tale.
Orla's Map Poem
Orla Merrin’s Wishing Line Log – Entry #212
Date: July (rainy again)
Location of Find: Old wall by the school gable
Ribbon: Wool twist with daisy stem (storm-snapped)
Note: “Let it pass overhead without breaking the roof.â€
I don’t think Maudie wrote it, but the weather’s heavy round her place lately. The air by Number Six feels like someone biting their tongue.
I walked past this morning and the teacup in her window was turned upside down. That's never a good sign. Usually means she’s bracing. Or listening. She boils the kettle longer when she's angry and keeps a spoon under the mat to stop dreams slipping out.
The storm’s still west of the lough, but the crows flew low.
She’s not opened that back door in 27 years. But she’s not the sort who needs to. The wind bends to her now.
I left the wish there. Just in case it was hers. Or just in case she needed it. The daisy stem had a bend, but hadn’t snapped. That’s enough sometimes.
—
Ribbon filed. Feather pinned. The kitchen holds.
Wish found near the west gable of the schoolhouse: “Let it pass overhead without breaking the roof."
- No name, no handwriting, but a thumbprint pressed into the page like a full stop.
The Return of the Pickled Thunder
Filed under: Lost & (Carefully) Found | Purrport Incident #274-B
It was just after the Tuesday moon-washing, when the lake surface turns glossy as old film, that the jar came back.
No one saw who left it. No footprints. No flutter of wings. Just a faint smell of vinegar and ozone on Maudie O’Byrne’s back porch, and a scrap of crumpled paper tucked under the lid that read:
“It hummed in its sleep. We couldn’t take the risk. Thank you for your courage."
The jar itself was warm to the touch. It pulsed faintly, like a forgotten drumbeat. Maudie, who hadn’t dared hope, squinted at it from the kitchen window for a good hour before stepping outside.
“Back, are we?" she muttered. “Well, you’d better behave this time."
She brought it in with tongs and a fireproof doily. Placed it on the mantel beside her collection of teacups named after weather phenomena. Fitz the cat sniffed it once, yowled, and vanished into the wardrobe for the remainder of the day.
By evening, the jar had released two short bursts of thunder and one full-bodied cackle that rattled the coat hooks. Maudie responded with a lullaby in F-sharp and a stern tap on the glass.
All has been quiet since. Or quiet-ish.
Of course, the whispers around the village haven’t stopped:
Tansy Bitterwhistle insists she heard it arguing with her barometer.
Finn Morrigan claims it echoed a line from his dream.
And Orla Merrin, the careful observer that she is added a new symbol to her map: a spiral tucked behind Maudie’s chimney.