Dr Moose (Liminal Animal, a creature of many worlds)

I'm happy for folks to follow me if I look interesting enough, but 1) I don't make any promise to follow back. 2) I m not here to gratuitously argue 3) if I don't know you IRL & your profile says nothing about who you are (e.g why I might want to follow you), that's an instant Block. Savvy?

It feels like a quite a long time since I posted a #GoodMorning, possibly because it is! However, I'm on-site, well-enough, and caffeinated. Those all seem decent to comment upon, even if there's little beyond holy loitering ongoing. Carry On!

Goodnight from Den Cooper, reflecting how being a copper’s nark for DI Callaghan doesn’t half have him drinking in some strange places. Goodnight from Cassie Barnes, trying to trace the map of scars on her Changeling skin until it leads all the way back home. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Stephanie Ellis, trying to read the story under the headline: ‘THE DEVIL KILLS IN HOOKLAND’ from across the tram. Goodnight from Jack Belford, following the paths in Long Wolver Woods gilded electrum by the last of the Hunter’s Moon. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from The Devil’s Bread pub, where all the evening’s mutterings seem centred on Joe Wood’s sudden and unsettling disappearance from the village. Goodnight from Dorothy Winward, worried that there are more than satellites watching from tonight’s sky. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Candle Row, where an impromptu party at Weychester Wax Records has summoned a crowd the police cannot shift. Goodnight from St. Mary-of-the-Woods; crypt, where certain teenagers are not finding the spider-veiled tombs conducive to pashing. Goodnight from Hookland

There are passageways where we cannot help but brush against phantoms. Places that narrow our movements till a spirit scraping is inevitable. Neither dead nor living will yield right of way. This may come from an unknowing of the other's presence or a terrible lack of manners. – #CJosiffe #Ghosts

😸😸😸😸😸😸😸😸 From THREADS

Goodnight from the Branwood Raceway, where Nathan Rush is fixing a bag-o’-bones charm to the mirror of his Vauxhall Chevette ahead of tonight’s demolition derby. Goodnight from Abigail Parish, worried she’s misjudged her offering to the Well of Shadows. Goodnight from Hookland.

Re-enchantment is often a remembering, a discovery a map already tattooed upon our bones.

Given the inclemency of the current meteoreological state wishing you all a #GoodMorning is a statement of hope. As is my morning #coffee. Carry On in the spirit of Britishness as we face this next bit of heavy weather, as we used to call it (or Autumn!)

Goodnight from The Reaper Rides The Bus gig at The Black Broom nightclub, where even the bouncers are finding the fans’ outfits more than a little disturbing. Goodnight from Dr. Flag, intoning mathematical formula as an eleventh-dimensional summoning. Goodnight from Hookland.

It would appear that a #GoodMorning is in order! Lightening sky increases hope, though clear sunlight yet to manifest upon Isengard. Paths are half-term quiet, thin birdsong audible amidst tyre passage on damp asphalt. #Coffee, joy consumed past, and what challenges & delights lie ahead? Onwards!

Goodnight from the nurses in Coreham General’s canteen, unable to resist discussing the strange man in A&E whose silver jumpsuit couldn’t be cut off even with the sharpest scalpels. Goodnight from Laura Mills, wondering if she can capture souls in her compact mirror. Goodnight from Hookland.

#GoodEvening all! In an unashamedly self-centred post I'm pleased to note that it's been a good (if not wholly emotionally satisfying) day, that the chilli was also good (& a dietary disaster, at least in part due to factors beyond my control or intention), & that I have words from #Hookland!

Goodnight @hookland.bsky.social from Three Crowns, Penstow, where keen ghost hunters have outed 4 prostitutes, 3 adulterous couples, & 1 out-of-County drug dealer, & can't hear laughter of 3 ghosts claiming to be kings; & from PC Barwood, enjoying quiet night off in his distinctly boring local.

The Sun has gone. It is depressingly dark. Acceptable food has been made (by me) & eaten (rice too wet). A #Hookland post is lined up (may feature ghosts), but I've not fathomed how to auto-post replies... Between now & 10ish... who knows? We will survive, even thrive..

Sky's palette shifts from violet to grey with approaching light as October lengthens. Trees still cling to leafy clothes, denying autumnal advances. Road below holds night's shine of departed rain, asphalt black as (now consumed) #coffee. Half term stills others' duties, but not mine. #GoodMorning

Goodnight from Maisy Bloom, the light from her Derek Fowler nightlight not quite bright enough after Nan’s bedtime stories of Marrow-suckers. Goodnight from Jay Rickman, stealing himself to swallow a spoon of cider vinegar to keep the Night Hag at bay. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from The Cape of Green pub, where there’s muttering about how early the snow will come and whether the Cloven Maiden’s prints will be seen in it. Goodnight from The Fisherman’s Hall at Wegweck Cove, where the dancing is becoming a summoning. Goodnight from Hookland.

#GoodEvening. It's been a good day, playing guitar & singing some classics to lead worship at St. M's this morning, the spiciest pizza yet had at #PizzaExpress (highly recommended) for lunch, & space to chill & think this evening (including drafting tonight's #Hookland post, with a new character).

Goodnight from Vicki Betts, desperate to test the efficacy of her new love charm in The Ice House nightclub. Goodnight from Broxton’s Orchard, where a lantern party is in full swing and each ghost story told darkens with the amount of roast cider that has been drunk. Goodnight from Hookland.

I love the inspiration that @hookland.bsky.social has added to my life & creative writing. I still need to discern how & where to take it. How I'm nearly 6 months into nearly daily 'goodnights' I don't know... but I have one for later! More seriously, who wants longer vignettes & stories?

Goodnight from Spendlove Yard, where the spirit of Emma Wheatley is trying to loudly tut at the nonsense spewed about by the host of the Original Weychester Ghost Walk. Goodnight from Ruth Lee, reading the spill of neon in puddles as a scrying of tomorrow. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from the Wrabwick Green Parish Council meeting, where’s there’s been much debate about positioning of litter bins and renewing the protective wards. Goodnight from Doug Barden, ghost-heavy as he waits on the Old King’s Ferry to cross the River Hel. Goodnight from Hookland.

Heading home, for those who're interested. Conversation in front appears to be Polish. The food & company have been good. I have an hour or so in transit. There are many, many, worse places to be on a Thursday eve than semi-fast to Isengard, replete with Mild, steak, wine, and friends' chat.

Londonbound, & taking the time to ruminate on matters #Hookland. Was it the honey, faery gift on St. Ragener's step, that allowed the Rector of Nether Stoaton to chat with the unexpected girls in his Orchard? Could be! Will this be the goodnight, or will further inspiration strike? Watch this space!

#GoodMorning all. I've erased the grumble I was going to post, and shall instead rejoice in #coffee, await any students or staff who need a chat/listening ear, mark time before lunchtime Holy Communion, and look forward to meeting #RPG chums for drinks & food in The Big Smoke later! Carry On!

Goodnight from the harbour master at Maryworth, hoping there will be a reduction in chatter about ‘lights moving under the sea’ this evening. Goodnight from Emily C. Banting, the tide of salt-hag heart dragging difficult omens up the shore of her dreams. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Ashcourt, where the Guild of John the Baptist lead a fire-snake of torches from Church of St. John-atte-Bower down to the sea for the festival of Safe Return. Goodnight from Penny Ash, hoping the House Hob has put her supper on the boil. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Annabel Dellaway, walking the Restal Waste to find a good spot to sink the Blood Sprite she’s trapped in a sulphur jar. Goodnight from Liv Draper, dreaming of the songs she will sing to the cherry-lipped girl who floats the paths of Tichnell Woods. Goodnight from Hookland.

In night's warm dark, I wait. From within, squeak of sports shoe on hall floor. Outwith, smooth movement of supermarkets loading doors, silken purr of vehicular electric motors, almost ghost-silent. Pasts prediction of future now, even as internal sound is tinnitus scream & mind ponders Hookland.

The tower blocks the council put up in the 1960s only took a decade till they were so haunted, no-one wanted to live in them. It weren't just the broken lifts, the smell of piss in the stairwells, it was the ghosts that did for people. Spirits turned mean by the towers' design. Liv Green #VOH

Make a war film rubbish The Heroes of Teleprinter Where Eagles Daren't The Bottle of Britain Hannibal Cooks The Guns of Macaroni...

Well, Goodnight all. And what have I been using the last hours of Sunday over? #Hookland family trees, for my envisionings of the County at least. I may yet get beyond short word bursts in the dark...

Goodnight from The Witch Shirt pub at Cloverhill, where the charity bucket is going round to help those folk caught up in last week rain of stones. Goodnight from Ellis Garside, asking the lines on his face to remember this as the moment he saw a Thornshriek. Goodnight from Hookland.

#GoodAfternoon all. Today's musings include: who wears earrings in ancient Hebrew culture, the opacity of cut-and-shut Gospel parables, the needs of cooking roast lamb, the wisdom of wine, & continued admiration for short form @hookland.bsky.social posts, & how to develop my voice in/of the County

Goodnight from the spectre of Ron Shadford, confusing Coreham General Hospital’s incinerator for one of Hell’s furnaces. Goodnight from the 23:36 Ashcourt to London train, stopped yet again, this time by discovery of bits of something not entirely human on the track. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight @hookland.bsky.social from Poly's Holly Hall, where worse spirits than cheap vodka have invaded kitchen at floor 4 party. The cry goes up, "Get Iron Weyland!" It keeps him in drinks. Goodnight from Old Jonah Wales, peerless cunning man & curse-layer, still without sure cure for his gout.

#GoodAfternoon Inserting proof of life status here, so to speak. There has been Morning Prayer, and #coffee. There's also unreasonable tiredness, among other things*. Still, Manspace here on-site in a bit, supporting male Mental Health awareness with a variety of colleagues. (*may include gout. Ow!)

Goodnight from Brimford Power Station, its cooling towers busy releasing water vapour clouds which twist into the phantoms of a thousand stampeding mares. Goodnight from Charlie Hook, rubbing the scar gifted by Harrowhound bite and honouring its story. Goodnight from Hookland.

Seized by the desire to do a Warhammer 40k fishing game. Massive rusting cybergothic space trawlers dragging chaos-warped gigawhales out of the stygian abyss of the ocean. Tyranid shark-fleets. Eldar anglers with wraith bone fishing rods and monofilament lines. Orks with shotguns like Withnail.

This gets said constantly, but it worth reiterating: Games Workshop being bigger than fishing is important to shout about because you wouldn't know it from government talking points, which are rarely about anything creative or artistic. Growth won't involve fish or steel, it will involve goblins.

Goodnight from band practice for the Tower Block Saints, where a poltergeist sympathetic to the neighbours keeps on pulling on amplifier plugs. Goodnight from Emma Hartley, unable to express why her daughters’ tales of an acorn-headed man scare her so much. Goodnight from Hookland.

Good Evening all. Supper all but ready, as I await GoodLadyWife s return from choir. Hookland post is prepared, though sadly not from The Cock, Hampton Wells, on account of rodentine plague in the Church Rooms & manifestation of gout in the author's big toe joint. Malign presences need no spirits!

The spirit of the stairs told in tug at clothing, sudden rush of jasmine perfume or laughter of children. Told in tobacco fug, in an undeniable, audible wheezing. Told in whispered curse or snide tutting. Told in sudden shove. Staircase spirits are rarely less than bold. – #CJosiffe, 1982 #Ghosts