Wordless Wednesday
Month: Jul 2024
Protector
The child who has just thrown herself like a shield over a rotting synth causes me to pause. Forces me to see her. She lies draped upon the cowering machine and she glares at me. She’s scared, but defiant. I shift my rifle, making sure she can see its aimed at her. She takes a jagged breath but doesn’t move.
‘Step away from the synth.’ My voice is sterile and authoritative.
She shakes her head. She’s terrified, but she still doesn’t move.
‘I am here for the synth,’ I say. My gun doesn’t waver, but neither does this small half-starved human shield.
‘Not Polly.’
I stare at her from behind my visor. She’s shaking, her whole-body rattles, but she doesn’t
back down. She’s tiny, malnourished, no different from any other slum rat, except that she’s brave enough to defy me, she’s able to overrule the animal parts of her brain that are probably screaming for her to run, to flee into the twisting alleys that make up the Pritech Quarter.
I am used to people protesting when we come for the synths. But not like this – Who’s going to look after me now? How am I going to get work done around the store without it? That thing cost me a lot of money. Am I going to be compensated?
Polly, an odd and soft name for a synth.
There’s chatter over the comms, other patrol members reporting in, synths being brought
back to the convoy, and I am still standing here considering this street rat and her Polly. I
have a job to do, I have orders, not worth the trouble of not doing my duty, I need this job. I lower my rifle and pull my holstered stun pistol, aiming it at the child. I will use it, I would rather not, but I am here for the synth, and she is in my way.
‘You have till the count of five,’
She doesn’t blink.
‘One,’ I pause giving her chance, ‘two,’ another pause, ‘Thr …’
The synth moves. With practiced ease I holster my stunner, swing my rifle up and aim it
at the pair, not taking any chances. The synth gently curls a hand round the girl’s bony wrist, its missing fingers, the index and the pinkie and the synthetic epidermis on its hands looks rotten. It can’t rot, its not real, but this synth is old and that’s why I am here for it. Another virus, the work of yet another smart-arse hacker is doing the rounds. The older synths have less protection, so it struck them harder, for the most part its just affected their motor functions causing erratic twitching and immobility. But others the virus has had a more dramatic effect on, like the service synths at Sukara Sushi the virus managed to take full control of their systems, and it weaponised them. After attending that mess, I won’t be eating sushi anytime soon.
‘I will come with you Protector,’ the synth says.
Its voice is rasping and weary. It possesses a human like quality, the melancholic echoes
of a lifelong lived.
‘No!’ the girl wails. It’s the first time she’s let fear and panic take control. Her stick thin
legs scrabble for a purchase on the synth as it rises to its feet, a desperate attempt to hold on. ‘No, no, no!’ Her arms tighten around its neck. ‘Polly, please!’
The synth is now standing, the girl wrapped around it like a primate infant clinging to its
mother. (I have seen those in reruns of centuries old documentaries, visited them in the
artificial zoo.) With its full form unfolded, I can see the extent of its deterioration, the ravages which time have worked upon it. It’s an antique, a Mark Two, maybe even a relic from the Mark One era. How is this ancient machine still functioning? Its survived decades, perhaps even a century.
‘It will be ok. You will be ok,’ it assures the girl whose face is buried in its neck.
Slowly and with great care it starts to detach the child. Initially she resists, fighting this
removal with the same tenacious ferocity from earlier. But then as if a thread has snapped, a dam broken the fight goes out of her, her tiny body falls limp, the fierce spirit dissolving. Her surrender fractures something within me, a shard of empathy pieces the calloused armor of my rank and role. Protector, here to collect, to bring the hacked synths in for repurposing, stripping down, recycling.
My rifle is heavy. ‘I can’t do it,’ the words scrape against my throat.
With a shaky breath I lower my weapon. My mind races – scrub the data from my helmet
cam, I’ve done it before, but for lesser sins. It’s a gamble, I’ve a lot to lose, people depending on me. I turn my back on the pair, heading away from the heavy shadows of this alley, the synths voice follows me through the gloom.
‘Thank you, Protector.’
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved
Wordless Wednesday
The Writers Room Part 2
Productivity strode into the room. Great Idea, Inspiration and Research all cheered. Great Idea turned the computer on and hovered excitedly next to the empty chair waiting for her idol to get down to business.
On the other side of the room Distraction hurriedly picked up her phone and tried to open Facebook, but Diligence was onto her. She snatched the phone and changed their password, ensuring doom scrolling couldn’t commence. Grateful that Diligence had her back Productivity gave her friend a snappy high five as she took her seat, flexed her fingers and opened a new word document.
‘We’ve got this!’ Great Idea declared.
Inner Critic pretended to vomit, but nobody was paying her any attention. Great Idea and Inspiration both started talking at once, gushing with excitement, while Creativity began to hum. The room quickly divided, half of the occupants bubbled with anticipation, while the remainder were an agitated mess.
Great Idea and Inspiration called Research over, they conferred, and Research opened a search engine, they needed to know more.
Distraction zoned in on Research, slinking across the room seductively. ‘What are you looking at?’ She purred smiling sweetly at her target.
Research blushed, Distraction had a lovely smile, and she was looking rather attractive today. She started to explain what she was investigating, but Distraction interrupted her.
‘Ohhh,’ Distraction sighed disinterestedly. Then she leant in close to Research, ‘I like dogs, dogs are cute. Maybe we should check the adoption sights?’
Research havered, they all liked dogs. Inspiration floated over, she forced herself into the narrow space between Research and Distraction deliberately jostling the would-be tangent off the bench.
Fear of Exposure had overheard what Research was looking up. She started huffing and puffing, pacing back and forth across the room. Finally, she could take it no more.
‘That’s a controversial topic Research. I don’t think we are qualified to write about it. We could upset people.’
Inner Critic agreed while in the corner Stuck in the Middle started to cry. She wasn’t close to being needed yet, but she had a sixth sense for knowing when things could get messy and she had a bad feeling about this story already.
‘We haven’t had a cup of tea in ages,’ Distraction grumbled.
‘Or a biscuit,’ Can’t get in the Zone added. ‘I wonder if we have any biscuits, maybe we should go to the shops?’
Productivity, Inspiration, Great Idea, Research, Creativity and Diligence shared a look.
‘Get them!’ Productivity shouted.
There was a passionate tussle, but Diligence won over and soon Distraction, Can’t Get in the Zone, Perfectionism, Fear of Exposure, Inner Critic and Stuck in the Middle were all tied up in the corner of the room. For a while they mumbled and grumbled, but it was no good Productivity was on a roll.
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved
The Writers Room
Distraction jumped to her feet and Can’t Get in the Zone followed her lead. They paced the room, poking in draws, and flicking through books on the shelves. Great Idea grumped, annoyed that they were once again dominating. Inner Critic rolled her eyes and got up to join them, she was pretty sure Great Idea had floundered again.
‘Ignore them,’ Inspiration urged. She was sat in the corner, surrounded by notebooks, postcards, and magazine clippings. Distraction drifted over to join her; they had a natural chemistry but were a bad influence on each other. Within minutes Inspiration had her phone out and was spiraling down a black hole with Distraction.
Research started to get angsty, she and Inspiration had been going steady lately, but she knew Distraction was a threat to their budding relationship. Rightly threatened she marched across the room, and tapped Diligence on the shoulder, ‘Have you seen what those two are up to?’
‘Again,’ Diligence groaned and hurried to break the pair up. Research smiled smugly and went to sit with Creativity, who was doing a plot puzzle. Research immediately found a missing link.
‘We’ve been here for ages,’ Stuck in the Middle moaned. She felt trapped and she sensed that they were going nowhere, she was anxious.
‘Yeah, I don’t think Productivity is coming back,’ Inner Critic gloated.
The room fell silent, and a creeping sense of panic settled on everyone.
Distraction abandoned Inspiration and started to make the bed. She pulled the covers back and there was Fear of Exposure, curled up in a ball. Fear of Exposure grabbed at the blankets and tried to bury herself again, but Diligence pounced and wrestled her out of her hiding place.
Forced into the open Fear of Exposure scuttled across the room to join Perfectionism. Immediately they set about reworking the rooms latest short story. Inner Critic rushed to join them she had a lot to say about that piece and wanted to make sure her opinions were heard.
Can’t Get in the Zone headed to the record collection, maybe the right music would help. Distraction and Inspiration joined her and before Productivity and Diligence could get a handle on things the tunes were pumping.
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved
Bunny
I’m heading south today for my uncle’s funeral.
Brian, or Bunny as we all knew him, sadly passed away two weeks ago. These last few years thanks to Covid and life I haven’t seen nearly as much of him as I would have liked. In fact the last time I saw him was my mother’s funeral at which he read his favourite poem – A Coat, by William Butler Yeats.
A Coat
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.
William Butler Yeats
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/12893/a-coat: BunnyBunny was someone who always made you feel seen, heard and valued. He was fascinated with life, interested in everything and was a talented artist. He persued art for the love of creation. He was a photographer, a painter and a sculptor, though there was little he couldn’t turn his hand to.
I have done many things in my life, but the
most important segments are the periods
from 1960 to 1980 and 2004 until the present when I was and am now making
sculpture and drawing. The gap in-between
I foolishly devoted entirely to business and
regard these as fallow years.
Here Bunny talks of himself and his art. I am so struck by what he says here, fallow years. I keep thinking about this phrase and Bunny. He was a wonderful person, complex and intelligent. We all loved him very much and we all miss him, my aunt most of all who he loved above everything.
I have many memories of Bunny, him in Orkney hidden behind the lens of his camera, him cooking in his kitchen, sitting on a veranda in Tuscany drinking wine with him, Bunny bustling around in his workshop or working on his Mac. When he worked he radiated a calm sense of purpose which was hypnotic. I loved that if I ran cross country to my aunt and Bunny’s house, upon arrival he would offer me coffee or wine, never a glass of water, even if the sun wasn’t past the yardarm yet.
I haven’t yet really processed that Bunny has moved on, gone ahead or left us. This won’t really happen until the funeral, but even then I don’t know when or if his passing will ever feel real. Its been three years since my mum died and I still feel like she could just be away on holiday.
https://flickr.com/photos/noust123/: BunnyWordless Wednesday – Crannog
Dook
I tried the window, but it wouldn’t budge. Painted shut. The room was stale. There was a scent swirling amongst the dust motes that I couldn’t quite pin down, feathers, old pillows. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant. I peered out at the darkening sky, clouds where creeping in, soon I wouldn’t be able to see the hills across the water.
The bed was damp and unaired, the sheets clung to me, and a chill settled upon me. My stomach growled, I should have eaten on the ferry, but the food in the canteen had looked plastic, hardly appetising. And the rolling waves had done nothing to inspire hunger. I turned the light off and darkness swallowed me.
I dreamt I was flying a kite. I stood barefoot on the beach, the icy waves washed over my frozen feet, back and forth, back, and forth. I faced the ocean, but I could sense someone up on the dunes watching me, the creep of their eyes upon me. The wind tugged at the kite. Snatching it and snapping its line.
I woke as the red and yellow kite was swallowed by a towering cloud.
The room was still dank, and the funk of my sleep had done nothing to improve the smell. I pulled on the thick woolen jumper I had picked up in a charity shop while waiting for the ferry. It prickled my skin, but it was a barrier to the cold. The curtainless window revealed a dreary day, with heavy clouds. White horses raced over the waves and for a moment I thought I saw something breach, a fin, or a tail, but it was engulfed and lost from sight almost instantly.
Something fluttered by the window. I moved closer to the jack frosted panes of glass. It was a bird’s wing, the rest of the creature was a fetid mass, stuck to the rotting wood of the window frame, but its wing was flight ready. I watched it twist in the wind and remembered the kite.
Nobody was about downstairs, but the water in the kettle was still hot. I made myself a cup of tea, which I drank in a hurry. It sloshed in my empty stomach stirring a sense of nausea. I needed to eat something.
The fridge was empty except for some wilted celery, a crumb covered lump of butter and tub of chopped up bait. A search of the cupboards revealed various aged tins and a packet of half-eaten mince pies which were nearing their first birthday. I hate mince pies, but I don’t function when I’m hungry.
Picking pie from my molars with my tongue I wandered down to the beach. The wind turned my hair into a mess of writhing snakes, which whipped and snapped at my face. I could feel the pounding of the waves through the soles of my boots. I stood just out of their reach and watched as they threw themselves on the sand with frantic hunger.
I was hypnotised by their energy and didn’t hear Magda until she spoke, her words soft and warm in my ear, ‘Did you bring your wetsuit?’
I laughed, of course I hadn’t. No time for that, as soon as I had hung up the phone I was in the car, on the road, on my way here.
‘Only a fool would swim on a day like today,’ she concluded. But there is a challenge in her voice.
For a moment neither of us moved. Statue still. Runners poised at the starting line. Then I was a tangle of limbs, twisting, pulling, hurriedly ridding myself of my clothes. The bitter wind lanced through my exposed skin. Beside me Magda skipped on one leg as she tried to pull her foot free from her jeans. I gave her a shove and she fell bare arsed on the cold sand with a satisfying slap.
Then my sister and I are naked as we were when our mother pushed us out of the womb we once shared. I grin at Magda, and she returns my smile, for hers is mine and we run, full tilt into the wild ocean.
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved
Meadowfield Park
A tanker slips up the Firth
Seeming not to move but the river drifts by
I stand at the slide and watch her go
Wonder where and when she has been
Not long ago many boats sat out there
Cruise ships, containers and tankers
Anchored fleet of metal seabirds
Still like the world, if not the waves and sky
Funny to think of that time
No trains, no planes, all the boats stilled
And us tuckered away in our homes
A stayed and quiet world in appearance
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved.
Mind Burble
I don’t write poetry and not because I don’t love it! I adore Billy Collins, Elizabeth Bishop, Carol Ann Duffy, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou and Ted Hughes to name just a few. I admire those who can create poetry, it is not an easy art and it is such a personal one.
But this poem Meadowfield Park, had been forming in my mind for a number of years. Its about my local park where even before covid I spent many hours with my dogs and son, but during covid it became a haven to us. I used to stand at the crest of the hill by the long metal slide and stare out at the ships which had been forced to dock in the Firth of Forth thanks to the virus. They captivated me. Who was on them? Where had they been going? I had so many questions.
My poem began there during covid as I stared at anchored ships and wondered when the world would return.
I sometimes can’t believe covid happened. Everyone’s experience of that time was different and I am not here to have an opinion on what happened, or the rights and wrongs of it. But I do find it fascinating when covid creeps into the arts – I felt numb the first time I saw it in a television show, I was oddly excited the first time covid raised its ugly head in a short story I was reading. To me there is something cathartic in seeing covid acknowledged in creative form, but for others I suspect it is the opposite.
Roddy Philips who runs the online creative writing workshops I have previously spoken about put together an anthology of the writers work that was created during covid – Still Life. I loved pouring over this book, being able delve into other peoples creative reactions to covid.
I have a reading wish list of books which feature covid, Fourteen Days – Margaret Atwood & Douglas Preston, Companion Piece by Ali Smith and The Sentence by Louise Erdrich to name a few. It isn’t easy to read about but for me it helps.
I wonder how other writers have handled covid and if it makes its way into their work. How has it been writing about covid? Was it difficult? How did it impact peoples creative process? Except for this poem, I haven’t tackled it yet in any significant way.
Thank you for reading!
Moon Cast Smile
We enter the glade and form our circle. Above us the stars burn. No one speaks, no one looks at each other. Silent, we stand, in silence we witness and slowly the moon passes over the glade. Its light bathing us, refreshing us, rekindling our powers which had dwindled over the last month.
Once it has passed, we turn taking our leave. All solemn, all silent.
Then to my left someone softly giggles. It is melodious, infused with joy and it is sacrilegious. I freeze, stalling in my procession and glance at the chuckler. She is looking straight at me, her face dark in the shadows of the trees, but her eyes stare brightly at me, and she smiles. Her teeth are white and starlight pours from her. I am chilled, though not with dread, something flickers in my chest. An ache. A yearning. She is beautiful and unashamedly powerful. I turn and hurry from the glade.
Over the next lunar cycle, I busy myself with my healer duties. I try to push the giggler from my mind. She is one of the Lunar Circle; one chosen to take in the powers of the moon and practice the sacred art of healing. A venerable duty. Our place in the circle is an honour. We were picked as children and trained by our predecessor whose place we now stand in. We have always been kept apart. This keeps us safe. Not knowing the other parts of the circle ensures that it can never be broken. I shouldn’t have glanced at the giggler, and she shouldn’t have been looking at me.
I try not to think about her, but I wake at night to the echo of her laugh ringing in my room. I draw my quilts tighter in attempt to shield myself. But what am I shielding myself from? I burn and as I burn it seems like her smile hangs in the dark above me. A bewitching moon cast smile.
I don’t sleep.
Slowly the moon moves through her cycle.
Back to the glade I go. My powers are weak, I am drawn out, wearied, but I am also excited.
I keep my eyes on the ground as I join the circle, then as the moon reaches her zenith and I cast my gaze skyward, I risk a glance to my left. She is there. Her radiant red hair tumbling down her back. She is looking at me and her look tells me she knew I would glance her way. I blush to the tips of my toes, my face smolders. She smiles and my heart nearly bursts from my chest.
Another lunar cycle. Another month of no sleep. She haunts me. Every red head I see could be her. I rush after a woman in the market, but when I reach a tentative hand out to touch her shoulder she turns, and she isn’t my lady of the moon. Her face is tired, bitter and holds none of her magic.
The moon is full and to the glade I go.
This afternoon I took my time as I bathed and dressed. I wanted to look more than myself to be worthy of her.
I steel myself; I don’t look her way. I want to, but I don’t. I am too afraid of what I will see, what I may unleash. The moon clears the glade, and I am sated, but not in the way I wish. As one we turn and take our leave. My spine tingles telling me she is near, just yards from me in the darkness. I can smell her, lavender, sage and something spicy. My hand stretches out instinctively and there it finds another. Fingers curl round fingers and I am undone.
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved
© Juliet Robinson 2024, all rights reserved
A Year of Time 