Hookland

Today's answer to the question: 'What is Hookland?'

Goodnight from Hui Wu, the microfiche whirr the only sound in St. Woden’s library as she researches the mystery airship wave of 1909. Goodnight from ‘Witch Kettle’ Sam, going to Hamble Woods to talk to the Shadows about the promise they made him. Goodnight from Hookland

Grammar pisspuffins just play hierarchical status games. If you expect stuff you get for free from writers to be professionally edited, you don’t understand much. If you don’t understand how weary we dyslexics are of the public correction bullshit, you have an empathy deficit.

The wood that does pull something wild from us is not a true wood. It is merely a collection of trees. For the true wood fills us with feral shadows, whispers to us to grow claws. – #CLNolan

Goodnight from Mollie Garland, hearing the ghost of Dr Lockley crunch the garden path, but never reaching the door to knock yet again. Goodnight from Adam Randle, Boss & Co. shotgun heavy in his hands as he takes his turn at watch in the Mordant mausoleum. Goodnight from Hookland

The witch has her places of green communion. The witch has her favourite talking trees. She needs not warp the environment to her will, merely to find her place within its ecosystem of feral magics and genii locorum. To be part of it is enough. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

The Hum called us to walk under its lines, to listen to its songs. The Hum called us to become part of the electric ley of the land. It opened up the way into another England and when it stopped, not all of us made it back. – Tattoo Labyrinth Dave, ex Pylon Person

Goodnight from Hildy Jenks, unable to shake the fear that the chalk marks of children’s street games have formed a gate for Half-there Folk to climb through. Goodnight from Tom Hall, regretting bringing in those finger bones he found to the police station. Goodnight from Hookland

For those of you who dislike 'Twitter', just a little reminder that Hookland relocated its county town to the cloudless place more than a year ago. There's more Hookland written for there now than this place, because honestly, staying as an act of resistance has its limits.

The long grass of July cannot imagine the return of Jack Frost. It aches only for rain to ease its yellowing, a little more breeze to dance with. There are times when we are grass, forgetful to say our prayers to inevitable cold gods that will visit our lives. – #EmilyCBanting

Even those stones and portal tombs egregiously described as 'minor' have the lithic gravity to pull visitors from the orbits of their lives and into cowshit-carpetted fields. The Long Neolthic's power to transform folk in stone pilgrims is mighty. – Dr. K. Brophy #StandingStones

Goodnight from Jo Timmer, setting the alarm clock for just before sunrise so she can catch a glimpse of the local Wodewose returning to King’s Chase Forest. Goodnight from Mel Darling, comforted by the purring of the ghost cat curled at the end of her bed. Goodnight from Hookland

Folklore needs to be told, needs to be transmitted. It desires to jump from pub to pub, playground to post office. It has an intrinsic dislike of being trapped in the ink cages of books. Folklore wants to be in our conversations and in our shivers. - #CLNolan #FolkloreSunday

The woods whisper to us to walk them. The woods whisper to us of other things: paths that never come out at the same place twice; forever lost children; moss maidens that desire to drink more than dew. To refuse to listen is folly. – #CLNolan. 1934 #Woods

Goodnight from the abandoned Rocket Test Centre at RAF Nook, where an amber warning light monitoring the ShadowSky satellites has just turned on. Goodnight from Susie Fenton, assessing the future through throwing bones on her grandmother’s best tablecloth. Goodnight from Hookland

For we are Hookland and we are ghost-full, Changeling-crowned. For we are Hookland in all our weird colours, all our polished charms. At every edge of our borders, wonder.

Some say the Ashcourt Docks foot tunnel is haunted by construction workers. Others claim it's ghosted by those dead from climbing its 252 steps. I've even heard it's cursed by the spirit of the the River Casta itself. All I know, it gives me the collywobbles. – Sara Hawe #VOH

Goodnight from Bryony Trigg, painting nail polish sigils on timetables as rain drums Shrohide’s only bus shelter. Goodnight from Celia Foxhall, not satisfied with her husband’s claims that the odd voices on the baby monitor come from a neighbour’s radio. Goodnight from Hookland.

The alleged home tree of the Wood Sprite known as Knuckle-razor. His preferred appeasements are copper coins, the shed skins of snakes and libations of nettle pop.

Goodnight from the spirit of Tom Ford, making a conscious decision that the leering through windows stage of his afterlife has finished. Goodnight from Rosie Cogg, full of shivers as she waits for tide to turn at Sleech Cove to complete her Salt Summoning. Goodnight from Hookland

Some roads seem ghost-carved. Part of a haunted hodology. They cross the land joining places together not only in this world, but in the Empire of the Dead. We may view them as peril paths or accept them as part of the psychic infrastructure and walk them with wonder. – #CJosiffe