My writing group friends, and I are doing a small experiment. We have all struggled lately with writing for various reasons.
In my instance my mental health has been on a bit of a rollercoaster. I am doing all the right things; I am moving in the right direction, and nothing lasts forever so this too shall pass – hopefully along with my writer’s block.
Anyway, back to our experiment. We have all been tasked to go out into the world and make use of a recommended technique for overcoming writer’s block.
Shab’s must do some free writing with no editing and no deleting. Under no circumstances is he allowed to tweak his work, he must push onwards and upwards. This is not an easy undertaking for Shab’s who can’t help but rework and rework and rework his stories. He is his own worst critic.
Janet must pack up her laptop and head to a café where she is to write for an hour. We have agreed she is allowed to enjoy cake and coffee while she is there. For Janet this is not a simple undertaking, its not that she doesn’t like being around people, but she prefers the comfort of quiet places.
I must try something new or go somewhere new. Not a new writing method, simply something new which might inspire a story. I immediately got very excited about this, I started thinking about all the things I want to do – broom making, for some reason I really want to make my own broom. String making, I read a while ago that the plant broadleaf plantain can be processed to make string and since then I have been desperate to figure out how this is done.
But I quickly realised this is just playing into my favourite pastime of researching things. I love to research things, to spend hours learning about them, taking notes, collecting materials and obsessing over something. I have done this a thousand times; I have folders and files stuffed with things I have been into and very few of them have ever progressed much further than this initial research phase.
So, I must try something new. I just don’t know what it will be yet. We have two weeks and then we must report back on our experiment.
Hag Stones on Iona for no reason other than they are beautiful – my own picture.
It’s funny how life likes to close circles Auntie thought as she tipped backfill into Maurice Turners grave.
She had been at his birth, his mother had gone into labour during his father’s funeral and Auntie had been in the wings waiting to fill the man’s grave. His birth had been quick, Maurice had seemingly been in a hurry to get at the world.
Auntie knew most people who rested here, bar those who had passed long before her time and Maurice was no exception. A nice boy, quick, slight and into everything. He’d had a hawkish face, which suited him as he bobbed and dashed around the place. Smart and likeable, mostly. Maurice had done well at school, earned a scholarship and had even managed to get himself all the way to university in neighbouring St Almany. At this point he had dropped off Aunties radar for she seldom left the cemetery let alone Kilder.
It wasn’t until her niece, Lolly had gone to St Almany to have her wisdom teeth pulled, that Auntie heard of Maurice again. Lolly met him by chance in the street, and he had taken her out for a fine dinner, then to the theatre. Not used to being around people with coin to splash Lolly had been very taken by him. She remained in touch with Maurice when she returned to Kilder, writing to him and seeking opportunities to visit St Almany.
Once done with school Lolly pursued a stage career, which took her back to St Almany and Maurice. Lolly had been beautiful and wasn’t short of suitors, but it was only Maurice that she had eyes for. It wasn’t long before they were engaged, which Lolly’s mother thought a good thing, as the girl couldn’t act and clearly wasn’t going to make her fortune on the stage. Better that she marries and perhaps start a family.
Maurice had become a wealthy young man, having started a successful shipping company. With his wealth he bought up land around Kilder including the old Rhodes estate. The estate had once been a grand residence, with extensive orchards and grazing. He intended it to become the family home and set about returning it to its former glory.
Lolly and Maurice’s wedding was an extravagant affair. Their guests were treated to a lavish feast, dancing and performances by friends from Lolly’s theatre days. Auntie had been invited, but had not attended, she didn’t go in for crowds or the formalities of the living.
For the first year of their union, they lived in St Almany, but when Lolly fell pregnant, she returned to Kilder taking up residence in the Rhodes Estate. She had an easy pregnancy, glowing throughout. At weekends Maurice would come down from the city and they would entertain guests. The love and joy of the young couple seemed to flow from their home and out into the wider community, rippling out like a flame. For the first time in years there was a sense that great things could happen in Kilder.
The night the baby arrived was still and calm, except the sky which had been lit by the burning debris of a passing meteor. Auntie had watched the flares of light and energy in wonder from the cemetery. When she heard Lolly’s child had chosen that night to be born, she couldn’t help but wonder about the nature of this omen. Good or bad? Whichever it was there was power bound into it.
A month later Auntie dug a new grave. She chose the spot carefully, on the edge of the cemetery, near the riverbank among a cluster of mayhaw trees, which would cascade with white blossoms in the spring and flame red with rich ripe fruit in the flowers wake. Lolly’s child was laid to rest here, amongst the trees. The funeral had been short, the parents were statuesque in their grief, and that night Maurice had returned to St Almany.
Lolly remained on the estate and for a while Maurice had travelled between the two homes, but storms, rival firms and even pirates had meant that his business was in difficulty, and he couldn’t be spared. Eventually he stopped travelling between his homes and stayed in the big city leaving his wife alone in her grief.
The pain of loss changed Lolly, she was no longer a bright and beautiful creature. Her mother and friends tried to provide her with solace and comfort, but she would take none. She blamed herself for what had happened and Maurice’s absence only reinforced this.
For a year Lolly kept to herself and was seldom seen in the daylight hours. On the anniversary of their child’s birth Auntie found flowers at the child’s grave, a bright cluster of asters laid neatly before the headstone. Soon after the estate which had been in deep mourning along with its mistress returned to life. The gates reopened, the household was restaffed, the orchard workers returned, and livestock brought to auction. A shroud had been lifted.
However, Lolly remained largely unseen by those who knew her, reclusive, she communicated with notes and letters only, but that winter things changed. Invitations came out, inviting the whole town to a New Years party.
The event was extravagant, and it was only the first of many. Soon it was not just the Kilder folk who were invited, but also those from distant regions. Each party grew in scale and expense, and Lolly was the queen of excess. When she started to invite theatre groups to the estate to entertain people began to talk, for everyone knew about Maurice’s money woes, but Lolly continued to spend, and they continued to attend. Maurice remained in St Almany, he didn’t come to chastise his wife for her spending and their credit for now remained good, but everyone noticed the growing rift between husband and wife.
A particularly famous troop of performers came over from Europe that season and they brought the roof down in every town and city they visited. Lolly just had to host them, she pulled every string and spent a royal fortune to get them out to the Rhodes Estate.
The troop arrived under the light of a full moon, in carriages pulled by fine black horses. Auntie watched them pass through the town and believed she recognised them for what they were. The following morning, she went out to the estate and asked to speak to Lolly, but she was turned away. Undeterred she had found another way in but was sent packing when she reached the house. Still, she tried again, asking a maid to take her niece a letter, the girl promised she would.
That night all the towns folk were invited to the estate, except Auntie. An elaborate production of Midsummer Night’s Dream was put on by the Europeans and the next day it was all anyone spoke about. Auntie felt slightly calmed as nothing untoward had happened.
Another night, another performance, the comic opera Princess Ida, this time with guests from all over the county not just Kilder. Auntie watched the fireworks that concluded the party from her bench at the cemetery. As the coaches rolled back to town, she began to wonder if she had been wrong about the performer’s nature.
The third night was the troops final performance. Kilder buzzed with excitement and gossip about the extravagances Lolly had planned.
A knitting in Aunties stomach set her worrying. She decided to seek her niece out, she needed reassurance that all was well. It was easy to slip into the estate this time for every tradesman and his dog had business there that day and she was just one of many people arriving. She let herself into the house, slipping past the maid she had previously asked to deliver her warning and made for Lolly’s bedchambers. She found the curtains drawn, but the bed had not been slept in. It was at this point she was discovered and was escorted from the property. As she was roughly handled down the drive, she caught a glimpse of Lolly emerging from one of the large carriages in which the performers travelled. Even from this distance Auntie could see the radiant glow about the girl, they locked eyes, then Lolly turned her back on Auntie.
Auntie watched as carriage after carriage rolled past her cemetery on route to the estate. The hum of the party could be heard over the cicadas, music and voices rising and falling. Later when she retired to bed Auntie noticed an orange glow on the horizon, she opened her window and the air that crept through carried the scent of smoke.
The fire had started in the kitchen, spreading quickly, trapping many of the guests inside. By the time an organised response was underway it was too late, forty-four souls had perished. When the news reached Maurice, he rushed back to Kilder and it was he who pulled Lolly from the rubble.
His wife was utterly unscathed, her clothes were burnt, but she hadn’t a bruise or singe upon her. She was hurried back up to St Almany for medical treatment, but it was unnecessary, and she was discharged into Maurice’s care. Once back in their town house she took to the bedchamber and wouldn’t leave.
Auntie interred the locals over the next few days and helped arrange for the final passage of the deceased who had further to travel. The cemetery had been a busy place, busier than Kilder which was now much reduced and deep in mourning. Though behind closed doors and in quiet places whispers began, had Lolly had started the fire.
While his wife refused to be part of the world and remained locked away in her bedroom Maurice’s money woes came calling. The estate had been mortgaged to cover his business debts, and with the fire the debt had been called. His remaining assets were seized, the business foreclosed on, and the estate sold.
Months later on a moonless night Maurice and Lolly returned to Kilder, taking up residence in their only remaining property, a small house near the forest. Nobody saw Lolly, but Maurice was seen pacing on the porch or walking in the woods. He came to the cemetery daily, placing a single lily at his child’s grave. Where he got the coin for the flower from Auntie didn’t know, but she never asked about it. However, at her sister’s behest she did approach him to enquire after Lolly. His voice was slow and heavy, his answer short – she was recovering.
The weeks passed, the seasons changed, Lolly remained an unseen entity while Maurice became wraith like in his demise.
One morning Auntie found fresh flowers at the child’s grave, not the singular lily she was used to but the purple blue asters. The following day Maurice’s body was found. He had been brutally slain. The coroner concluded it was an animal attack and when Auntie was called upon to prepare him for burial, she agreed that something wild had ended his life.
Of Lolly there was no sign. The house had been vacant when the sherif went to inform her about her husband’s passing. A search had been conducted but nothing turned up, she had simply vanished.
So here was Maurice, resting in a shallow grave just yards from where he had been born, thirty-one years ago. Funny how things worked out. Auntie pulled her pipe from her pocket and settled down to wait. Not long after sunset a shadow came creeping. Lolly. She approached and paused by the shifting soil in the grave before her. A hand clawed its way through the dirt, an arm, another hand, then Maurice’s face, filthy and feral. Auntie sighed, tapped out the pipes embers and picked up her shovel. Duty called.
Image – Bing Microsoft Image Creator – Mississippi estate
Mind Burble
This piece was originally much shorter and was written for a workshop. I wrote it following a trip to New Orleans which should tell you were all the ideas came from, least surprising of all the I guess would be the appearance of vampires. It was a lifelong dream to visit New Orleans and I did hope it would inspire a story.
I enjoyed leaning into the tone and the tropes in this piece. It was nice to come back to it, to make changes and finish it, as lately I am really struggling to finish anything and I don’t feel like I am making any progress with my long term projects. So yes a box ticked, a story finished and a vague sense of achievement, even if I am not wild about the story.
When I started to get back into writing after a long break I did so by doing some short courses. These helped boost my confidence and allowed me to slowly slip back into things.
One tutor gave me some advice, which really had me doubting myself and my writing.
She told me if you like what you write then you aren’t a good writer.
I asked her if she was talking about editing and how we can become attached to what we have written, often not wanting to make changes. But no, that was not what she had meant.
I asked if she meant that writers doubt themselves. Again, not what she had meant.
She explained to me that in order to be a good writer you have to be driven and for her that drive came from hating her work.
I don’t love everything I write. Sometimes you have to write things that don’t rock your story world. But for the most part the stories I try and tell are shaped by things that interest me, characters who I want to spend time with or places and things I love. I simply couldn’t write if I didn’t feel a connection to what I was trying to create, if I didn’t like what I was working on I wouldn’t have any incentive to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard!
As I said she had me doubting things – she is a successful published author, and I am just someone who spins tales when they can. It took me a while to distance myself from the shadow of her advice and remember that we are all different.
I wonder what bad and good advice others have received?
For me the pottery analogy has been perhaps the most helpful thing, I wrote about that previously on this blog.
It helps me to remember that everything you write is practice and experience.
‘I woke at six. I need no alarm clock. I was already comprehensively alarmed.’ Silence followed Murray’s smug words and he shot his audience a peevish look.
Only Owlish seemed to be listening, he blinked two large eyes and shuffled his chicken wire wings. Murray pursed his lips and decided to help them get to the punchline. He waved his left arm in the air and pulled his sleeved down, exposing raw, puckered skin, and an ugly rend which dominated most of the ruined limb. Nestled amongst the pus and tendons was a green Bakelite alarm clock, its second hand had fallen off, but the hours and minutes still ticked.
‘Comprehensively alarmed.’ He shoggled the limb and blood started to seep from the tender flesh.
Owlish turned his head away, the whole hundred and eighty degrees.
‘Clearly I’m only one whose had their coffee this morning!’ Murray grumbled. He picked up a spanner and wiped dried blood from its head. ‘Speaking of coffee – De’Longhi?’ the dark corners of the shed shuffled, but nobody came forward. ‘De-Loooonnnghiiiiiii.’
A trundle of wheels answered Murrays call as finally De’Longhi rolled forth. Her feet had been replaced with office chair wheels, her lovely long legs curved upwards, to her hips which now supported a rusty coffee machine, upon which her heavy bosom rested nestled amongst the stacks of cups.
‘Cappuccino,’ Murray demanded. ‘Anyone else?’ No reply.
De’Longhi smiled weakly and started his order. Her gel nails were chipped and as she steamed the milk flakes of pink tumbled into the froth, where they spun and twisted.
‘You do make a fine coffee,’ Murray offered her rare praise. ‘Shame you had to go on maternity leave, the office wasn’t the same without you. I told you when you started, we are a family. You don’t walk away from your first family.’ He glanced down at her wheels and smirked.
De’Longhi poured the espresso and topped it with steamed milk and froth. Her mottled hands were shaking and a maggot fell from her flesh and plopped into the beverage. She started to shake, cups clattering.
‘Extra protein,’ Murray smiled, his dry lips stretching thin over stained teeth as he took the cup. As De’Longhi retreated and he slapped her behind playfully.
Owlish hooted reproachfully.
‘What?’ Silence. ‘Yeah I thought so. No backbone, you were a weak and pathetic security guard and whilst you’ve changed a great deal you’re still pitiful.’
He sipped his coffee for a moment, then pulled the sheets from the workbench. Gary the intern lay there, his mouth bound with gaffer tape. Next to him was the office fax machine, the one that only he had been able to work, when Gary left his placement, returning to college the damned thing had given up.
Murray ran a finger along the machine, ‘You weren’t the only one who missed him. But he’s here now.’ He smiled at Gary, ‘Aren’t you.’ The lads eyes bulged and he strained at the telephone cords binding his limbs. ‘No, no my dear boy don’t fret, this is a job for life. Think of it, lifelong security, not many companies offer that anymore.’
Murray turned away to consider his sketched-out plans, he had been careful to consult with the fax machines manual while planning Gary’s premotion. Tinkering was a fine art you could never be too careful.
‘Tell me Gary, where do you see yourself in ten years’ time?’ he asked wondering if he had left enough room for upgrades, what if the office went fully digital, switched to email entirely. ‘Do you know how to send and receive emails? You’re young, is that something you’ve learnt at your fancy college?’ Murray turned back to the youth, but Gary wasn’t on the workbench anymore, nor was the fax machine.
‘Gary?’
A flash of white and something heavy smashed into Murrays face. The fax machine. Gary swung again, this time striking Murray in the stomach.
‘I quit!’ Gary roared as Murray slumped to the ground. He turned and rushed towards the door where he struggled with the bolts. Just as he pulled the last one free Owlish swept in, leaping from the shelf in a flurry of wire and feathers. It didn’t take him long to subdue the youth. Murray sat up, shaking his head sadly at Gary. But he quickly brightened and smiled at Owlish, ‘Somebody’s getting their bonus this year.’
The boat lies low in the shallow water, so the hull scrapes over rocks and sticks in the silty mud, we climb out when this happens and push. The first few times I take off my boots, and then put them back on lacing them carefully, but soon I stop lacing them and then I don’t bother to put them back on. Eventually we abandon the boat, and instead we walk upriver alongside it, pushing it against the sluggish current.
Despite the lack of rain, the humidity hasn’t gone anywhere. When we first arrived all those months ago it was like walking into the hothouses at the botanical gardens. I felt wet and shiny the whole time, and it smelt like a tropical fish tank. But we’ve acclimatized, I’m used to the sheen of sweat on my face and my t-shirt sticking to my back. And the smell, I’m used to that also, rot and decay (which are really the scents of growth and life), at first it had stuck at the back of my throat, and it was hard to swallow, but now it isn’t even there.
We’ve been traveling for four days – one short jungle flight, where there were more chickens on the plane than people, a day walking along dusty old military roads, a spot of hitch hiking and now the river. Our guide, who told us to call him Tom Cruise, says his sister has a restaurant in the next village where we can spend the night. Will negotiated a good price for the boat, so we can afford a night of accommodation. I’m looking forward to not sleeping in a hammock strung between two trees in the forest. I’m afraid of the dark and there are few places darker than the rain forest at night. And the noise! The sounds of the forest are so alien I fall asleep sure I won’t wake in the morning, I am convinced a monster will kill me in the night.
Its late when we arrive at the village, which is little more than a few longhouses crowded on the riverbank. A rust brown dog lies in a pile of fishing nets, it stirs as we unload the boat and comes over to see if we have any food. Tom Cruise tries to shoe it away, but I tell him off and in apology offer the dog a chunk of the tracker bar I have just opened.
Dusk falls quickly here and it’s upon us before we have even shouldered our packs. Tom Cruise is eager to get to his sisters, he buzzes around hurrying us, though when we insist on having a smoke before we leave, he forgets his hurry and bums a rollie. We smoke a lot here – it keeps the insects away, but also because it’s a comfort and a luxury. Two things which don’t otherwise exist in the jungles of Borneo.
Tom Cruise gathers our cigarette butts, pockets them, and then he is off, leading us along the trail which wind between the houses. There are no roads here and no village boundary, the forest just starts at the edge of some hog pens. Tom Cruise pushes forwards and the jungle swallows him. We follow him, no questions asked, though it briefly occurs to me that he could be about to rob and murder us, but this doesn’t really worry me as much as it should.
It turns out his sister’s restaurant is a long way into the forest. We stumble through the thick undergrowth, and I laugh when Will accidentally kicks up a fire ants’ nest. I shouldn’t it really hurts when those things set about you, but it’s funny listening to him shriek and thrash about in the dark.
After a while we find ourselves on a well-worn path which is a welcome relief and then there are lights ahead of us and Tom Cruise calls out, ‘Hungry?’
His sister’s restaurant is a funny place, its location for a start is strange, out here in the forest a good hours walk from the village. It’s a large two-story longhouse on stilts, too big for one family and it doesn’t look like a restaurant. We troop in and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the bright glare of the bare bulbs which light the place. A bench table sits in the middle of the hall and a balcony runs around the upper level, there are doors up there – lots of them and scantily clad women hang over the rails peering down at us.
‘A restaurant,’ I raise an eyebrow at Will.
His face is sunset red, and he starts to stammer a reply, but I ignore him and stalk towards the bar at the back of the room. The smell of cooking meat stirs my stomach, and a warm beer will go nicely with that. A roof is a roof, if I get fed and I don’t have to worry about forest monsters for a night I don’t care if Tom Cruise’s sister’s restaurant is really a brothel.
This short piece is based on a trip I took many thousands of years ago to Borneo. It was an amazing adventure filled with leeches (I hate them), dodgy stomachs, endless rainforest, climbing, hiking, living on beaches and being young. We would hire locals to take us out on long treks through the rainforest and to sites, often they would give themselves celebrity names. So yes, ‘Tom Cruise’ did take us to stay at his sisters brothel, the food was amazing and it was the first bed I think I had slept in for weeks. ‘Chandler Bing’ took us climbing and showed a cave burial site, in which his ancestors rested in. We had the pleasure to meet lots of amazing people who showed us their wonderful part of the world.
I first noticed I was missing on a Thursday. It was coming up for lunch and my stomach was nagging, demanding I eat the soggy egg mayo sandwich I had stuffed in my handbag this morning as I hurried out the front door. I was standing in the corridor by the stationary cupboard, waiting for Brenda to unlock it. If I ever find out who put Brenda in charge of office supplies all those years ago when she started here, I will kill them. She takes her role as overseer of pens, paper, paperclips and staples insanely seriously. Honestly, I think the world would be a better place if when she finally gets the cupboard open, I snatch the keys from her hand, shove her into her precious cupboard and lock the door.
Brenda mumbles in a gripey manner as she places the key in the lock. She has a way of speaking that suggests the whole world is a disappointment to her and my need to replace my missing pen is just one task too many. I nod and make preprogrammed noises that I have learnt over my years working here at Duns, that I know will appease Brenda without further entangling me in any form of conversation with her.
Out of the corner of my eye I see something move. I turn and look out the window, the something is pretty large, and it lumbers between the chimneys on the roof opposite. It hops like a crow, but it’s far too big to be an average corvid.
Black and brown feathers.
Brenda tuts, she has realized I am not listening. I smile at her apologetically and wonder when I became an appeaser of such people. She opens the cupboard door, pulls the light chord and strides into the tight space of the stationary cupboard like a queen inspecting a parade. The walls are stacked high with carefully organized boxes, this place is a treasure trove of office supplies, there’s enough in here to see out the end of days filing needs. She is still tutting.
Tut, tut.
I twist my hair between my fingers, looping its dull brown strands round them. Brown, my sister got our mothers beautiful golden locks while I got our father’s boring brown ones. As soon as I left home, I got rid of them, chopping my hair super short, and dying it a different colour nearly every month. I was a rainbow. Now I’m something else, I have shed my rainbow plumage.
Drab little bird.
Brendas pudgy hand is offering me a box of clicky tipped pens, there’s five in there, rattling around. She watches with beady eyes as I take one, determined to make sure that I don’t try and sneak an extra pen. Heaven forbid such a wanton act, these supplies are for hoarding, not using. I wonder what she would do if I did take an extra pen and for a second my hand havers. Brenda’s eyes narrow, her shoulders tighten, she is tensed, coiled and ready to strike at my hand should I take more than my allotted one clicky tipped pen.
Click, click.
The thing on the roof opposite moves again. I sense it’s trying to get my attention. I pick a pen and look up at Brenda, smiling my thanks. My smile isn’t real. It isn’t my smile. It’s one I paint on when I am here, when I am on the bus, when I am doing the weekly shopping and all the other hundred little things that make up my monotonous life.
It isn’t my smile.
I glance out the window. The shadowy thing on the roof is now leaning against a red brick chimney. Casually, with a coolness that reminds me of James Dean, thanks to the nonchalant slope of its wings and the cock of its head. I was right it isn’t a crow. I am no ornithologist, but I think it might be a vulture. Like the ones from the film the jungle book. I hated that film, it terrified me.
King of the swingers.
It notices it finally has my attention and with flippant ease it holds up a sign. Brenda asks me if I am ok. I ignore her, and squint through the grey rain outside trying to read what the sign says.
‘Do it.’
Do what, I wonder. Brenda shuffles closer trying to get past me to lock up her precious stationary, she presses against me, and her breath smells like stale laundry. The vulture holds the sign up higher. Then turns it over, revealing that the other side also has writing on it. Brenda has turned her back to me and is about to close the cupboard door.
I read the new message, ‘You won’t regret it.’
I don’t even think about it. I raise both my hands and shove Brenda into the cupboard. It’s not an easy thing to do, she’s a powerful woman. She squawks as she trips forward, but again I don’t really hear her. Her voice has become a static buzz. I close the door as she tumbles into a towering pile of boxed A4 paper and turn the keys that she helpfully left in the lock.
Clunk
Outside the vulture has shuffled to the edge of the roof. It’s busy writing on another large piece of card. I wait for it to finish. Beside me Brenda is banging on the door, I can tell because its lurching in the frame, but I can’t actually hear anything, it is as if cotton wool now swaddles the world. Everything seems distanced and softened. Somewhere deep inside the office a radio is playing, its faint and the tune is familiar.
The vulture holds up its sign.
‘Feel better?’
No. I don’t.
I shrug at it helplessly and the bird begins to write again. As I wait for it to finish its scribing the radio grows louder, but I still can’t figure out what the tune is. But I know I once knew it. Word for word in fact.
The bird holds the sign up.
‘Call missing persons.’
What? I gesture with my hands. The bird smiles knowingly at me, flaps its wings and takes to the air, dropping its signs upon the street below. They scatter as they fall, twisting in the wind. The radio plays on and Brenda’s protesting bangs upon the stationary cupboard door seem to track the unidentified songs rhythm. So, I first became aware of my missing persons status on a Thursday thanks to a vulture, but if I am to be entirely honest, I’d had a sneaky suspicion something wasn’t right for a while.
Image from Microsoft Bing Image Creator – Do it vulture
Mind Burble
This piece was written as a timed exercise during a workshop. We were given the prompt I first noticed I was missing on a Thursday, which comes from Calling Invisible Women by Jeanne Ray. I hadn’t read the book at the time, but went on to do so. I really enjoyed it, its a quirky look at the experience of middle aged women, told in a thoroughly relatable manner! I enjoyed the feminist undertones of the book and often found myself nodding along in agreement.
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.
View from a crofts window looking out at the north sea, Bing Image Creator
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.
A Year of Time 