Uncategorized – A Year of Time

Published on Nov 27, 2025 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

Give Me To The Soil

They struggle to bring him up, the slope is

steep, their heights uneven. They almost

lose him as they approach the crest

I look skyward to catch my laughter

Sombre faces serious stares,

forced silence and constructed grief

Painted by the influence of perception

assumptions deep as the ocean

The words spoken round the cut,

are long, laboured and clichéd

Pious, unctuous, heavy with faith

celebrating a life, itself a long sermon

I watch a woodpecker, radiant green

a blur of light. It flashes from tree to tree

scurries up the bark, knocks on wood,

cocks its head, takes flight – a whorl of colour

His female descendants come forth,

Cluster, then break into song, high and shrill

The words of their hymn competing with the birds,

whose song hold more warmth, more authenticity

When you think it would end, it goes on

I study the groups, tight family huddles.

I try to pick their expressions, attempt

understanding of their place in this play

A variety of masks displayed, none natural

But then how could they be? Though death

is part of nature, humans pretend it away

It is other, removed, divorced, unspoken

The bearers return, take up their load,

hoist him and swing him out over the void

Down he goes, almost tumbling headfirst,

but salvaged at the last possible moment

Then it’s done, a wooden box holding grave dirt

passes around the gathered – a mimicry of the one below,

A congregation of hands take their solemn pinch,

a token of the inevitable to lay a man to rest.

Unique the sound of earth hitting wood,

differs with each cemetery

Here it’s the slap of clay on pine,

hollow, though a body fills the cradle

The soil here is changed, altered by the dead

by the rot of bone and flesh, the wood and cloth

dissolving. Necrosol, the true alchemy of death.

Creation universal, born of nature and time

We break apart, voices low and reverent

I let them pass, fold into an oaks shade

There is no burden of grief for me, no sense of remorse

I search for it – the guilt does not come

Bury the old, their measure is complete

no sorrow for what was spent or wasted

Mourn the young, there is a loss

a branch snapped to soon, season failed to turn

Why linger at the grave? The dead do not dwell

they have dispersed, to who knows where

Their memory is claimed by the mourners

shaped to please their own desires

Give me to the soil, let the earth reshape me

not those who mourn, I will feed

the trees, sate the worms. May the memory

of me be the woodpecker’s quick flight

Dinner Guests

Published on Oct 9, 2025 by julietrobinsonscot2 Comments

‘I’m going to check on lunch.’ Nancy smiled, though Robin who knew her like the back of his hand saw that it didn’t turn the corners of her mouth.

She headed to the dining room, wishing she had never quit smoking. A caterer was putting the final touches to the elaborately set table. How had she become the overseer of such dinners.

‘All ready?’ She asked, in what she hoped was a crisp and calm voice.

‘All set.’

Returning to drawing room she tried to catch her husband’s eye, but he was engrossed in Ileana, possibly her conversation, she thought tartly. Instead, she cleared her throat and declared dinner ready.

Drinks were poured though Ileana refused, asking for sparkling water. The starters arrived, and they were exquisite.

Robin sat next to his latest girlfriend Jade a younger variant of the last three. She was smiling at him raptly, twirling a finger through her hair though he kept trying to drag others into their conversation. Casting his eye towards Nancy every so often she thought perhaps pleadingly, but really, he had brought this on himself.

Torin sat between Ileana and Nancy; his shoulder slightly turned from his wife and his attention on Ileana. She laughed at his jokes, but kept glancing towards Nancy, almost placatingly.

‘Torin says you used paint.’ Ileana beamed.

Nancy took a large drink of white wine and looked at the woman. She could see the appeal, and at least this one was intelligent.

‘Yes, I had a studio not far from your new gallery. The southside was a little different back then.’

Torin turned to his wife. ‘Ha! More than a little, I thought you would be kidnapped. You know she really was talented but along came Alexander.’

She. Was. Nancy’s nostrils flare.

‘She still is,’ Robin corrected. ‘Stick your head round the door on the right before the bathroom, it is filled with her recent work.’

Torin sat up straighter and shot a look at Robin.

‘You’ve been allowed in the studio.’

‘Just once, back in January when you and Ileana were setting up the itinerant exhibit in Amsterdam.’

A tension vibrated round the table, four sets of eyes avoided each other, the other two cast round in amusement and confusion.

Jade changed the conversation though Nancy didn’t think it was because she had picked up on the other diner’s sudden rigidity.

‘I adore children, I would love to be a stay-at-home mother.’ She was looking directly at Robin, but he refused to notice.

Michael giggled loudly. ‘I hate children, and I need a smoke, please excuse me. I trust I have time between courses?’

He stood not waiting for a response.

‘Let me show you to the terrace.’ Nancy volunteered.

Outside he offered her a cigarette, but she declined.

‘Why am I here?’ He asked.

‘Ileana was meant to be bringing her assistant, young, Italian, with an arse you can bounce off a wall. He’s possibly your type.’

‘You’re trying to partner me off? Spare me. Relationships are for those who have given up on life.’

Nancy sighed, reached over, and snatched the cigarette from his hand. She leaned back against the rail, enjoying a long drag she held it in her lungs for a long time, savouring the chemical heat. As she exhaled, she felt herself wilt and Michael put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into her friend and not for the first time that she and he could be something more to each other, but neither’s sex quickened the others pulse.

The second course arrived, swordfish in a lemon and garlic sauce.

‘So, Ileana, when does the new gallery open?’ Robin asked.

‘Next month in theory, but Torin keeps insisting that the space isn’t right for his new pieces.’ Her eyes lingered on the artist in question. They shared a smile.

Michael tried to kick Nancy under the table but missed and scuffed his foot up Robins leg. Robin glared at Michael, who tried to signal with his eyes that boot hadn’t been intended for him. Ileana continued unaware of the ocular bout and the glacial look Nancy had hurled at her.

‘I have never meet with an artist with such passion for the entirety of experience regarding their work. Torin is a purist, a talent, a perfectionist.’

Torin frown and waved as if to brush off Ileanas compliments and Nancy felt her eyebrows raise at this effect modesty.

‘No, its true!’ Ileana insisted.

Torin sat back languidly in his chair. ‘This collection is the peak of everything I have been working towards, my entire life. I am not apologising.’

The caterer started to clear the table; she paused at Ileana’s plate which was untouched unsure if she should take it.

‘I am sorry,’ Nancy said. ‘Don’t you like swordfish?’

Ileana fleetingly touched a gentle hand to her stomach, just for a second and Nancy may have been the only person who noticed.

‘It doesn’t seem to agree with me at the moment.’

Mind Burble

This piece was just an exercise in tension an attempt to keep its tone low.

Black and White Slinker

Published on Aug 13, 2025Oct 9, 2025 by julietrobinsonscot3 Comments

Black and white slinker

strolls into the room

He who owns the house

but pays for nothing

With a spine bending stretch

paws fasten into the blue chair

Pong. Scratch. Pick. Slice.

‘You twatting cat, none of that’

The look he casts over me

scathing defiance indifference

Again, the claws dig, cut

Making, unmaking, owning Cat Lord.

Prince and Master

Word Less Wednesday

Published on Aug 21, 2024Aug 20, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot7 Comments

Stumbles

Published on Aug 16, 2024Aug 16, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot19 Comments

It’s been a long summer and creativity has fled!

I don’t expect I am alone in finding the summer a poor time for writing.

The weather is better (well I do live in Scotland, so it remains fickle) and it draws you out and with no school to occupy my child … the limited free time I have to write vanishes.

Autumn and winter for me are deeper times of creativity. I feel more myself in the Autumn, and in the winter, I turn into a cave dwelling hermit, so writing is easier!

Hopefully now schools back on I might find my muse again?

Protector

Published on Jul 28, 2024Jul 31, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot9 Comments

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.’

child and ancient synthetic robot – bing image creator

Rackwick Bay, Orkney

Published on Jun 21, 2024Feb 17, 2025 by julietrobinsonscot19 Comments

My grandmothers family are from the Orkney Islands. If you haven’t been – go!! There is something magical about Orkney and its not just because I am an archaeology geek – there is something in the air.

Orkney is one of my most favourite places and I have been writing about it, in particular about the island of Hoy.

Lately I have been writing about Hoy, its landscape and the feeling I have when I am there, these things are being woven into my writing. So far the island, acts as the backdrop for a few pieces I have written and I have several more stories planned which are set there.

I exaggerate aspects of Hoy in these stories, but it is the inspiration. And the nature and geography of the island has definitely helped shaped these stories.

The Bothy at Rackwick Bay – Juliet Robinson © 2022

And I mean look at it? How could such a place not inspire? Rackwick Bay is dramatic, there is a stark contrast between the soaring red sandstone cliffs, the soft green grass, the pristine beach ringed with beautiful coloured stones, the endless sky and the ocean.

Rackwick beach stones – Juliet Robinson © 2022

There is an otherworldly nature to Rackwick Bay, it seems a place apart from time.

Rackwick Bay the burn – Juliet Robinson © 2019

For me there is a sense of connection, a link to my family. My grandmother used to come to Rackwick Bay to camp, my mother did and now I do when I can. The layering of my families history feels heavy in Orkney, but for some reason here in Rackwick Bay the layers feel a little thinner, like I could reach out and touch the past.

A family camping trip to Rackwick Bay, the building in the back is the Bothy which is open to all – predates my time picture taken by mother when she would have been in her late teens

Landscapes naturally inspire the art world, touching painters, poets, writers, comedians and dancers. I love when I read a book which has a deep sense of connection to the place where the story is set.

The Old Man of Hoy – Juliet Robinson © 2022

On our last trip to the island, in 2022 my sister and I spent a couple of nights camping in Rackwick Bay. The Bothy was pretty quiet, other than ourselves the only other campers were two women, both travelling alone. We went our separate ways during the day, but at night we gathered by the fire, shared wine, food and we talked and talked and talked. It was special to be able to share that time with those women, to hear their stories, to get to know a small part of who they were and what brought them to the island.
For me after the isolation of covid, the loss of my mother and several hard years this was a truly magical experience – just being able to connect to others and share. I think I healed more in those couple of days than I can explain.

Inside the Bothy – Juliet Robinson © 2022

So yes it was probably inevitable that I would begin writing about Hoy and the women we met that weekend will be featuring in a story that I have planned. Though I suspect they may not recognise themselves if they were to come across the story!
This morning I felt a sense of urgency, a need to return to Orkney, it’s been two years, which feels far too long. The best I can do for now however is write about the islands and look at photos I have taken on trips there over the years.

Actually smiling in a picture, its because I am on Hoy! – Juliet Robinson © 2022

And one last photo … because Rackwick Bay really is stunning.

Ok I lied .. here’s another

Thea dog in our tent, apparently guarding some pasta – Juliet Robinson © 2022

Writing Prompts

Published on Apr 30, 2024 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

The above picture I took in The Antique Gallery of Houston, a place I highly recommend visiting if you ever get the chance. You can lose yourself for hours in the hundreds of antiques stalls there, there’s just so much to see and take in.

As I meandered through the stalls I came across a writing box. It was well worn and sadly a little overpriced for me, but its contents were wonderful. I took a picture of them, these snippets of someone’s life as they told a story, I felt like I could almost see the outline of the life these items had once been a part of. I hope to piece my own tale together from this picture as there was something so vivid about the contents of that writing box. What a great writing prompt – perhaps one someone else can make use of.

Sometimes its easy to pull a story out of thin air, but not always. Prompts help, I seek them out whilst all the time. They can be anything – a conversation overheard on the bus, a feather boa found abandoned on the street in the early hours of a Sunday morning, the sound of a pigeon taking flight under a bridge the flap of its wings echoing off damp stone or indeed in amongst the contents of a vintage writing box.

Moving & Workshops

Published on Mar 24, 2024May 28, 2024 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

A wee note before I dive into workshops – I have been very absent from life and writing lately, as an international move has once again landed upon me and with all of that I haven’t been doing much other than packing and stressing.

Merlin checking I have packed his mouse toys safely for their Atlantic crossing.

But I wanted to talk about workshops ….

Writers don’t exist alone in the wilderness, they need readers, but they also need other writers. At least in my experience this is the case. As I have mentioned I have Janet Armstrong and Shabs Rajan, who I share my work with and since 2022 I have been attending weekly online workshops with Bourne to Write, run by the excellent Roddy Philips. I love the Bourne to Write workshops, the people who attend are wonderful, funny, clever and just brilliant to spend a few hours with.

http://www.roddyphillips.com/?page_id=617

Workshops are wonderful, they give you a chance to try things, to come up with new ideas and to be inspired. I thoroughly recommend joining a local writing group or finding one online.

The following short story was submitted by myself as a piece of homework, a requirement for the Bourne to Write workshops – we are asked to write a story, or a poem normally with a word limit of about 800. Roddy Philips (who runs the workshops) provides a prompt – which you don’t strictly have to stick to (I seldom manage to!)

Travellers

The road was a universe of its own ruled by no being, not even natural law, and its one true trait was chaos. It wasn’t really a road when you got down to it, but a route that spanned space and time. It was not limited to one universe, nor was it really in any of them, it wove between the fabric of everything. Here anything was possible. Those who trod the road could encounter the improbable, the seemingly impossible, but when you got down to the nitty gritty of beings, most liked the predictable, the familiar, and the travellers who found themselves on the road often only experienced its most benign level for this very reason. They closed off windows and doors in their minds, they refused to see fully where they were. This limited them, but at the same time it saved them, for there were things out here that it was best not to know too much about.

Holm Williams-Jones had been walking the road for eons, but since time wasn’t really a thing here, its apparent passage didn’t seem to have left a mark on him. He was little older than when he had first found himself on the road. No older, but wiser for sure, indeed he had seen things your average Amman Valley boy couldn’t hope to comprehend. Holm was one of the travellers who dipped a little deeper into the true nature of the road, but despite and his experiences, he felt at home here in a way he never had in Cymru.

Right now, he was sat at the edge of the road, on a wall which slipped between a vineyard in Italy, a battlefield on another planet and a void. It was like fighting seasickness, you needed to focus on the horizon or else you got lost. A lesson hard learnt, he glanced at the stumpy remains of his ring and index finger, a betwixt beast had taken them when he had failed to hold onto the horizon.

The betwixt were creatures of neither here nor there. Fluid beings, slipping between the layers and shaping themselves from the minds of those they sought to consume. The one that had made off with his fingers had looked like a ginger tom, but it most certainly hadn’t been one.

He rolled a joint in his right hand and pondered many things, though none of them weighed on his mind. Holm’s father had believed him to be simple minded, but he wasn’t. He just took things at face value, accepting them for what they purported to be. When he had come to the road this quality had served him well, the expanse of this place hadn’t wiped him out, he had been able to slowly acclimatise and therefore had not been swept away. He had allowed himself to slowly open, to see the depths and layers of this place.

He was in no hurry for he had nowhere to be, so he savoured this moment of peace, taking the occasional toke. He watched a sunset, a planet being created and a dragon split the atoms of a timber warship as he smoked. But all the while he was careful to keep the road there at the edge of his vision, a steady horizon upon which to anchor himself. The clomp of feet drew him back to the road, an armoured column marched there, under a golden eagle. Romans!

Holm liked history, leastways his planet’s history, it had been the one subject he had enjoyed at school. He chucked his joint and sprung from the wall, slipping between places as he went, keeping his eyes focused on the road and the marching men.

The man at the head of the column was mounted on a stocky bay pony and when he drew alongside Holm, he called a halt. He stared down a hawkish nose at the Welsh lad, who wondered what this legate made of him. If he had been on the road for any length of time he would be used to sights, so a crusty nomad in a tie-dyed t-shirt probably wouldn’t worry him too much.

The man barked at him in Latin, Holm shrugged his shoulders, with a frown the legate switched to another tongue which also Holm answered with a shrug.

‘Celtae,’ the man spat with evident disgust. He then yelled something down the line and there was movement as someone stepped out of place. A tall man, with gold rimmed spectacles who trotted, panting noticeably to the head of the train. The legate snarled at him, then yelled at the legion and the column dissolved as the men set about making a roadside camp.

The man turned to Holm and with a broad Brummie accent introduced himself, ‘Rohan.’ He offered a hand, which Holm shook warmly. ‘From Birmingham University, Experimental Archaeologist and lecturer.’

‘Holm, wanderer and smoker of herbs.’

‘How long have you been here Holm?’ Rohan asked.

‘Long time,’ Holm nodded at the busy men behind them. ‘You? How did you come to be here? And who are your friends?’

‘My mother Deepti, she had a gift for seeing, showed me how to slip between,’ Rohan explained. ‘I use it to help with my research.’ Holm could see how this would be useful. ‘This is the Legio IX Hispana, more commonly known as the Ninth Legion,’ he finished.

‘Is that so?’ Holm sucked in his lower lip and looked around at the busy men. ‘So, this is where they got too.’

Notebooks

Published on Feb 18, 2024 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

I know right? Not the most interesting thing to talk about but I love a good notebook, sometimes when I find a really special one, I get a funny sort of feeling that this new notebook might be the one to sort my life out. I have stacks of them on my desk, some bought because I liked the covers, others because I liked the feel of the book.

Some are full of roughly written notes, in my horribly indecipherable handwriting, others are stuffed with printed pictures, notes on things I have overheard or read, newspaper cuttings, magazine articles and doodles. Sometimes I just stick things I like inside them, more like a scrapbook, but I vaguely try to follow a theme in order to tease a story out. On some occasions this pays off and a story grows from those pages. One of those stories is The Drowned, which is included in the book Wayside which I put together with Janet and Shabs.

Page which became my short story The Drowned.

When someone first explained to me the value of keeping a writer’s notebook, I was really dismissive of this idea. But I shouldn’t have been, I’m a magpie, I have boxes of pictures, cards, notes, and items that I have been drawn to, notebooks are just a slightly more ordered way to store these things. Notebooks are a vague way to order my thoughts and perhaps tidy my desk which is always in danger of being buried alive. Now if I could find a way to stick all the stones I pick up whilst out walking my dogs into my notebooks I would be delighted! For now, these just pile up around my front door.