100 Word Fiction: ‘At This Time of Year’

A barn owl crosses the fields, just here, every morning at seven o’ clock, at this time of year. And sometimes a deer jumps out from the hedgerow. Church towers can be seen every mile or so, through the bare trees, on towards the horizon and the cold, cold sea. We are on our way somewhere, between here and there, between last year and next, burying our heads in congregations and congratulations. But we laugh and sing while the real news continues. We daren’t look. News at this time of year is always a tragedy. The rutted earth is frozen.

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