London. Her first summer away from home. Her first in a city. Not just any city, London. She never, not even fifty years later, got over the excitement of that summer in London. The heat of the summer, which seemed to spill into everything.
She had flat in Belgravia. A job in advertising with a respectable paper. She was woman, it was the seventies, and she was making strides. Not sure how she had managed half of this. But she was here.
The rent had been cheap. The flat secured through a friend of her mother’s. But her pay had been minimal. And standards had been high, it was expensive being a woman. Especially one in the business of advertising. Clothes, makeup, hair and socialising. The bars in London had been a far cry from the country pubs where she had come of age drinking cider. Sometimes she missed those musty places, where the field workers came in smelling of the sun, sweat and grass, hands caked brown from their toil in the fields. Sometimes.
Here everything was fast, exciting and new. People had a way of talking – confident. She felt part of something huge here in London, even if she spent most of her days brewing coffee, running errands, answering the phone, collecting lunches and making dinner reservations.
She had been young and beautiful. Flushed with the potential of a life just begun.
At party she met Amado. He had been invited by one of the executives who had a passion for the occult.
Amado. He was dangerous. The sense of it had lingered around him. He had been finely dressed, smoking a pipe, like her father. A long face, roman nose, heavy eyebrows that framed stark staring eyes. Eyes that she had felt on her.
Her skin had crept and crawled when he came to speak to her. He wasn’t keen to hear about her, he just wanted to talk about himself, he was writing a book, he was a magician, and he quickly dropped the name of supposed mentor into their conversation. Crowley. She knew that name.
As politely as possible she had detached herself from his conversation. But he had haunted her steps for the rest of the night and indeed for the remainder of that warm and vibrant June.
Parties, so many parties that month and he was always there. She kept him at arm’s length. Easy enough to do. But one night he followed her home. After that, he had been everywhere. The park where she and her friends sunbathed on the weekends, the grocers, the newspaper stand at Knightsbridge tube station. Always her shadow. Yet he never approached. Just lingered. Watched. Then one day he was gone.
On the night of June 21st, the summer solstice, her doorbell rang. Though she was in rush to ready herself for a dinner with clients she answered it. Amado. He was crowded up to the door and loomed over her. She stepped back, her mouth dropped open, ready to scream, to alert passers-by. Silence. They stared at each other.
He was sweating, it dripped down his forehead and into his brows. He wasn’t dressed for June. Trench coat and boots, but this wasn’t why he perspired. He was nervous.
‘I have a gift for you.’ He glanced over his shoulder, then reached into the duffle bag he carried.
A gleam of white, a flash of teeth, in his hands rested a skull. He thrust it at her and she took it. Shocked, she held it staring down at empty eye sockets. He turned and hurried away.
Clutching the skull, she shut the door.
June had continued hot and glorious, filled with parties. Amado had gone. A cloud had lifted. Eventually she took the skull home to her parents and her father buried it next to the asparagus bed.
This is an older piece, its not so much a short story, but something that happened to my mother in the seventies. My mum passed away in 2021 and I have enjoyed writing wee snippets about her life. I find it cathartic. Under the Apple Tree which I have previously shared here was loosely based upon my mum also.
I haven’t really been on WordPress, which means I have fallen behind on the wonderful blogs I follow – I have missed reading peoples work, thoughts and seeing their creative endeavors. Other peoples creativity is inspiring.
Anyway … tonight I report back to Janet and Shabs on my attempts to counter my writers block. I was tasked to undertake something new. I really struggled with this. I felt like I should do something massive, perhaps bungee jumping or skydiving. But lets face it, those things are not me.
So I started with mindfulness. Again something that isn’t me. Like many people I have a racing mind and I struggle just to be. So I set off to Dr Neil’s Garden which is close to my house and is often pretty quiet. I found myself a bench with a view over Duddingston Loch, put a ten minute timer on my phone then hid in my bag.
It was a drab day, but the view made up for that. It took me a while to settle, but I did in the end. Its such a peaceful spot, not even ruined by the hum of cars in the distance. I loved watching a heron flying past (I associate herons with my dad) and I enjoyed the wren who was hopping around. When my timer went off I was surprised by how quickly the ten minutes had gone by.
I headed home, made a cup of tea and actually cracked on with some writing, adding another couple of thousand words to a longer piece I have on the go.
So mindfulness gets a thumbs up from me, though I think in reality I would struggle to do this regularly … especially with the colder months setting in. But who knows!
Second Attempt – distraction
Next I allowed myself to do what I wanted … not to force myself to sit at the desk, but to just go with my mood. This was a far less successful strategy and it turned out to be expensive. On the plus side I made a cute ghost, got lots of lovely new books to read, finally had tasty food from Toast & Tea at 63 Holyrood Road **total yum alert** and I got a betta fish. I loved setting up his tank, filling it with plants and I’ve always wanted one, so Wren joined the family. For the sake of my bank account … this is not the go to strategy for me, I have little self control.
Third Attempt – getting out and about
My third attempt was by far the most successful. This week the Scottish weather decided to give us all a break from the endless grey! So I abandoned my desk and just enjoyed some much needed vitamin D. Running has always been a great way for me to overcome a writing hurdle, it clears my mind. Walking also works wonders, with and without my dogs. I took them out into the woods and fields near us, we sat in the meadow just enjoying the sunshine. Then I went walking without them, wandering through the Edinburgh Old Town, before sitting at the parliament and listening to music. It was blissful. I felt much better in myself just for taking some downtime, I came back to my writing in a much better state of mind.
I can’t say I definitively found a method to cure my writers block. However I think just taking a break from berating myself about my lack of creativity, allowing myself to enjoy simple things like the sun and being less harsh on myself helped. I am keen to find out how Janet and Shabs fared!!
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.
Tricked by the sun into setting out on my run wearing shorts and a vest, I push myself to move faster. I never know what to wear when I go running at this time of year, the joys of British weather.
A kilometre into my run and I no longer care about what I am wearing. The first kilometre is always the worst, it takes a while for my body to remember that it can do this, and I am not going to die. Probably not.
Today’s route takes me along the Innocent Railway Line, which cuts behind Duddingston Loch and some posh golf course. It’s a hay fever hellhole at the moment, but it’s nice to be off the roads. A man comes into view and at once my woman’s radars squawks.
(Women will know the radar I am talking about; we all have one, it alerts us to potential threats and dangers. These radars start to develop when we reach our early teens, sometimes when we are younger – the when doesn’t really matter, it’s just a sad fact that all women have one. There comes a point when being female has its disadvantages.)
He’s squatting at the edge of the path, facing the wall with his hood pulled tight around his head. It isn’t warm, but there is no reason for his hood to be obscuring his face. He’s half hidden in the bushes – everything about him seems off.
He’s on my side of the path, so I cross to my right and speed up, not wanting to linger near him. I check behind me to see if anyone else is around, but there isn’t. It’s just me and him. I turn my music off and keep running.
As I pass him, he slowly turns and rises to his feet, casting his eyes over me. My skin crawls, I feel like meat. I force myself to move faster, not liking the look on his face. Five meters grow between us, then ten. I keep glancing back. He hasn’t moved, but he’s still staring at me. I don’t turn my music back on, I need to stay alert, I don’t want him suddenly sprinting up behind me.
I turn again and he’s smiling. There’s an edge to that smile, its cold, blade sharp and it doesn’t reach his eyes.
‘No need to run so fast love, I wouldn’t touch you,’ his voice is coarse, thick with threat. ‘You wish I would rape you.’
I’m sprinting, my feet pounding the tarmac, and he starts to laugh, enjoying my fear.
‘You wish I’d lick …’
I’m done. I stop. I turn to face him, red faced, sweat stinging my eyes and with a flick of my hand I send him spinning up into the air. Not gently, his arms and legs flail wildly. He shouts, not words, just noisy barks of fear.
This feels good.
I slam him against a huge oak tree, he smashes his way through the branches and thuds meatily into the trunk.
‘Fucking bitch!’ He bellows.
Again, I batter him into the tree and this time something cracks, it’s a moist sound – his ribs perhaps? A smile sweeps across my face. He’s making a lot of noise, so I spin him like a Catherine wheel. He vomits, bile and blood splatter the ground narrowly missing me.
‘Please,’ he sounds piteous now. His earlier menace is gone.
I stop his head long spin and he hangs untidily in the air, like a puppet whose master doesn’t quite know how to pull the strings. I savour the moment nibbling the inside of my cheek as I consider him.
‘Please,’ he repeats his plea.
No. Not today. I shoot him up into the air, higher and higher and just when I am about to lose my control over him, I snap my fingers. His body rips apart. I fling my arms wide and his remains fly in opposite directions, one half landing in the loch with a splash, the other somewhere out of sight on the golf course.
The sweat has cooled on my body and my muscles have begun to stiffen. I turn my music back on and restart my run.
I wrote this piece a year ago after bumping into the gentleman who ends up all over the local landscape whilst out on a run. I decided to share it today as on my run this morning a cyclist felt the need to pull his bike into my path, forcing me to a stop whereupon he inform me to get a better running bra.
By the time I had processed what he had said he was on his way. Firstly I was wearing my best bra, secondly he had no need or indeed right to approach me like this. Anyway, it made me want to share my I Wish piece again.
This short story went into the anthology that Janet Armstrong, Shabs Rajan and I put together. Which is available in print from Amazon or on Kindle Unlimited. We hope to put together another collection at some point its fun to do and a good way to use stories that otherwise seem to end up sitting in a folder on our computers.
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?
Freya enjoying a slow walk My favourite tree – well one of themYellow Craigs Beach
A Year of Time 