Mneme lives with her two sisters on the other side of the river in a small wooden hut. But her sisters are not at home now. Mneme is alone at the table leaning over a large ledger book. She is entering the date and name of the herbs and roots and medicinal leaves she has collected this morning - because she is not only a muse but a herbalist, part-scientist, part-witch. See behind her the crooked rows of shelves made from knobbly wood from knobbly trees, and on them the lines of little glass stoppered bottles, all in order, all alphabeticised, neat. When she is done she makes herself a pot of tea from the root that is known – she knows - as an aide to memory. She drinks and her face turns to water, in moments, transparent. And begins to remember many things, vividly, viscerally, as if she had lived the experience and, also, been a witness. But not the large movement of histories, battlefields, of nations. The small, intimate details of ordinary life: the large in the small; the small in the big. A woman sweeping a doorstep. A woman collecting her dead. Another who feeds the geese, when they come, crumbs from her apron. She will remember them.

Tutor's comments:

Really good start. Not sure about the repetition of knobbly. Maybe yes, maybe no, a good word but too cute to repeat it? Great pacing. Viscerally - too Latinate a word? You’re trying to make it immediate, as if she had lived the experience. About "A woman sweeping a step." Not clear which sort of step. What about 'doorstep'? Then it alliterates with dead in next sentence.

This is absolutely marvellous. I want to read on!

* * *

She is the old, cheesy-smelling woman at the back of the bus. And the closer you get, the more sour and vinegary. But there are no seats left, except in a corner beside her. And she is winking and making lewd comments at all the young men; making bets, rubbing her crotch with the dice. She rolls it again and again. Somehow she finds a moment to tell you to sit. And you sit noticing that she is holding a chicken between her legs. And that the chicken is desperately trying to flap its wings, to fly, away. The hag only pats its little head and says, ‘Never mind. I’m going to eat you tonight. Does it smell nice down there?’ The chicken says nothing, only wilts. There are other things. She has long, sagging breasts and a mole, like a nipple, above her lip. And she puffs on a thick cigar and blows the smoke out, at you, sideways. You try the window. It’s jammed. If there isn’t fresh air, you don’t want to breathe. You hold your breath. This makes the hag breaks into hysterical laughter. She throws her head back. No joke has been made that you are aware of but she looks at you, directly, to say, ‘My, my, what a pretty we have here,’ and digs out of her pocket a mirror. It’s cracked. And in it begins to admire her own face. You watch her, dumbfounded, as she spits and uses that spit to smooth down the stray hairs - in her eyebrows, her nostrils, the mole above her lips. And when she is done she poses the question: ‘Now who is prettier, my pretty? Go on. I’ll tell you. Ask me anything.’

Tutor's comments:

This is brilliant. I want to read more and more. Don’t stop writing!