fantasy – A Year of Time

The Bonnie Lass

Published on Nov 11, 2025 by julietrobinsonscot3 Comments

I went to the bathroom and threw some water on my face, combed my hair. If I could only comb that face, I thought. I snorted, better still comb the tangles from my life, but no, things don’t work like that do they, no easy fixes. I paused before opening the bathroom door, tried to give myself a pep talk, but it didn’t work. So instead, I just forged ahead.

There was more smoke in the corridor now. Not really a surprise. The sprinkler system was doing its best, but it was older than The Bonnie Lass, having been stripped from a drifting trawler twelve years hence. I held my hand out, let the smoke-stained water fall upon my palm. What does it taste like I wondered, sea water mixed with smoke, there had been whiskies like that. I licked my palm, the coarse skin tickled my tongue, but the water tasted nothing like my memories of whisky, it was bitter, with a hint of engine oil.

We had sealed the balk heads. The fire should have been contained. The plan had been to let it burn itself out. The Bonnie Lass is a big ship, one of the largest still out on the waters, a fire in the crew quarters was manageable.

I climbed up to the bridge. William and Fritz were arguing in low voices but fell silent as I approached. William seldom lost his temper, and Fritz whilst impetuous didn’t often challenge the captain.

‘Elizabeth,’ William smiled. But I know the man well enough to see beyond the curve of his lips, ‘How fare the rest of the crew?’

How does he think they are doing? Does he imagine their making the best of the situation? Should I tell him that as I passed the crew galley I saw Francis and Juno twisted together in the pursuit of carnal needs they hadn’t explored before. What about poor Jenny who had hung herself. Could I explain Turk’s painting, how he was throwing colour as if to create a universe into which he could flee. Did I need to say that Jack was sitting out on the bow humming a piece of music I dimly recalled from my childhood, ‘My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies over the sea, hmmm hmm, hmm hmm.’ What did William want me to say.

Fritz did the talking for me, with his fists. His huge right paw slammed into William’s face, swiftly followed by his left. William blinked, his face paled, and he crumpled to the floor. Fritz turned to me, waiting for my reaction, but I gave him none. I said nothing and I did nothing as he hoisted William’s feet and dragged the fallen captain from the wheelhouse. I crossed the boards and stood at the helm, took in the view from the bridge’s windows. Smoke billowed from the ship; the fire had not been contained. The Bonnie Lass shuddered as a blast rolled through her, the engine rooms had succumbed. The lights flickered, the engines stalled and just before the power went out, I set a course.

Twenty-eight years I had been aboard The Bonnie Lass, most of them hard, but we’d made a living. We’d trawled for salvage, we harvested drifting vessels, we’d once seen a floating house with a family of cats living aboard it. I patted the helm, the ship owed us nothing, we were good.

I passed Fritz as I climbed to Monkey Island, he was fishing, though no line fed his rod. I watched as he reeled in his imagined thread, checked a hook that didn’t exist, rebaited it, then cast for the horizon. I didn’t ask where William was.

I settled against the radar mast, which had been stripped of its paint by harsh winds, biting waves and time. The Bonnie Lass had navigated it all, but this was her final whorl. From up here the smoke that belched from her ravaged body seemed a shroud. The ocean was a stilled stage, not a wave washed its boards, no wind pulled at the smoke, even the cries and groans of the dying ship were muted.

It was slow. Drawn out. Deliberate. Water began to boil at the stern, the hungry bite of the ocean taking its due. The Bonnie Lass didn’t fight it; with the grace of a diving bird, she tucked her nose and began her descent. There was no crashing roar, just a deepening silence. It was harder now to lean against the radar, the inexorable pull of the ocean’s maw threatened to topple me from my perch. I wedged my foot against the rails and kept my seat. The grey of the ocean was rising to meet me. I thought of the cats on the floating house and wondered where the waves would take them.

A short walk and a long drop.

Published on May 20, 2025 by julietrobinsonscot1 Comment

Image – Microsoft Bing Image Creator, 20th May 2025

‘Put on your boots, strap on your gun, come on let’s ride.’ Abner, always with a sense of the dramatic.

The posse crossed the border in darkness, horses blowing hard, my hands numb on the reins. We hit the snowy plains as the sun rose, its glare fierce on the white world, but it did nothing to warm me.

Round noon we reached the pass, where Decker and I rigged the cliffs with dynamite. We hid them best as we could, the train would have to slow here as the tracks make a steep curve, we didn’t want an attentive engineer spotting anything. Then all we had to do was wait.

Lopez, Red and Decker played cards, I saw to the horses and the twins Laird and Kit heated up some foul-tasting coffee. Abner, he sat apart and made notes in that book he keeps. A thinking man, or at least that’s what he wants us to believe.

We heard the train long before we saw it, the shrill piping of her whistle and the chug of her engine reverberating off canyon walls. A ripple of excitement flowed through the posse. Decker hurried to the detonator, the fire was kicked out, I brought the horses up, girths were tightened, guns were checked and we mounted. Bravado and swagger were high, today would see a big pay out. The train below belonged to Arnold Wallace and our sources assured that a back dated payroll was onboard.

On Abner’s signal Decker blew the dynamite. The cliff walls heaved, as if taking a deep breath then blew outwards and tumbled onto the tracks. The whistle cried again and brakes screamed. All along the train windows fluttered open and guards poked their heads out.

Kit and Laird opened fire, their Winchesters cracking loudly as they picked off guards and enginemen. Then we were away, hooves kicking up muck and rocks as we bore down on the train. The plan was simple. Abner and I would take the armoured car, we had bolt cutters and dynamite. While we did this the others would subdue the guards and rob the passengers.

Things went smoothly, we met less resistance than expected. Far less. The vault was as promised, a treasure trove. Alongside the payroll we picked up ten gold bars. Abner strutted as if he had laid them himself, while I wondered about the ease of the robbery.

Lopez’s horse dragging his lifeless body along the tracks alerted us to the arrival of the Pinkertons. For a moment the world stilled, then they were on us, guns firing.

A set up and we had fallen for it.

Saddlebags bulging, we scrambled back to our mounts and flew. Our horses weren’t fresh, they didn’t have the legs for a race. Decker chose to face the Pinkertons. Lairds’ mare went down and Kit turned to help his brother. Red, we lost in the woods. Abner and I raced on. Not far from the border, with freedom in sight he turned, aimed his colt at my horse and shot her out from under me.

Down we went, a tumbling mass of horse and rider, a flurry of bank notes, snow, and dirt. I watched Abner cross the river and disappear.

The Pinkertons brought me in. They gave me a choice, a short walk and a long drop, or information on Abner. I ratted my brother out; I spilled my guts.

Red danced on the line while I waited to see if my information brought Abner in. I wanted to live, but my betraying talk proved worthless.

On a fine spring morning I was taken to the gallows, a crowd had gathered to watch me drop, the mayor and other dignitaries. Just before the gallows man dragged a sack over my head a well-dressed gentleman who stood next to the mayor doffed his hat to me and smiled with satisfaction, Abner.

Mind Burble

This is an old piece. I love a good Western, but had never attempted one. There was a limit of seven hundred words for this piece, so it was a bit of a squeeze!

The Art Store

Published on Jul 2, 2024Jun 27, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot2 Comments

Neon Sign Museum Edmonton – my own photo 2023

A flickering sign had drawn me down the narrow alley. Some wizards work, from many years ago, the spell now fading, but still effective, a naked woman grinding her behind against the capital A of the word Art.

Florin nudged me, a smutty look on his face. ‘The Art Store, a place to experience the culture of Nylryi.’

There was nothing about this dump that promised culture or indeed art, we were in the heart of the slum district, but we needed a place to lay low and The Art Store appeared to be just that.

We pushed our way through the beaded curtain which jingled and swayed. A dwarf bouncer sat on a bench beyond the curtain, their beard slick with beer froth, their axe propped against the smoke-stained wall, they nodded at us as we passed, confident, not worried about a halfling and skinny human. Inside the air hung heavy, a mixed scent, something sweet, body must and a metallic tang – perhaps blood.

A stage, sat at the center of the room. An unnatural purple haze radiated from it, illuminating the crowd, though the further you got from the stage the less you could see of the patrons. The customers were a mixed bunch, humans, trolls, dwarfs, a couple of goblins, a hunched over creature with scaled skin, we wouldn’t be noticed here. They sat nursing drinks, talking quietly amongst themselves, or playing cards, not one of them showed the slightest interest in our arrival. This was a good sign, perhaps word hadn’t gotten out that Ironbeard had put a price on our heads.

We found a table, greasy and wobbly in the midst of the crowd and Florin flicked his wrist, summoning a serving girl. We ordered drinks, which I suspected would be poor, but when they arrived, I was surprised by the quality of the wine.

Suddenly the air crackled with anticipation. A spotlight sliced the haze, illuminating a figure who was descending from a hidden platform above, an elfin woman. My pulse quickened. She was a vision. Her skin was polished alabaster, it shimmered with flecks of gold. Long sun-bleached hair framed her heart shaped face, a face that many would readily bleed for.

Her costume … well, there wasn’t much to it, clung to her curves like the possessive hands of a lover, but for the most part we were treated to an expansive view of her toned body. She alighted on the stage and bestowed a playful smile upon the crowd, all of whom had fallen silent and then in a honeyed voice she teased, ‘Admire as much as you can. Most people don’t admire enough.’

Well, that was a lie, there wasn’t a soul here who wasn’t admiring. Next to me Florin sat frozen with his drink forgotten halfway to his mouth, his eyes riveted on the near nude goddess.

And then she started to dance, and I, like everyone else, was captivated. It was the way she moved, every step, every turn, every twist was a symphony of grace. The music pulsed, not leading her steps, but responding to her flow. She shaped the music, it was enthralled to her, as was I. This wasn’t just dancing; it was a story. A story of a faraway land, she taught us ancient rituals with a twist and spin. She wove desire and hunger into the tale, and I leaned forward, eager. The crowds’ bored stupor had vanished and had been replaced by a primal fascination. We were all drunk on her.

When the music finally ended, the room shook with thunderous applause, and bestial calls. I joined the chorus, I needed more.

The woman basked in our desperate pleas with a smile on her face. It was cruel, she had given me a taste of the sweetest nectar, she had let me sip, but she had snatched it away before I could quench my thirst. She raised her arms, stretching out her long slender body, the light dancing over her form, and then she ascended back to the heavens from whence she came.

Silence, the crowd’s voice had deserted it. I shook my head, I felt drunk, yet I had barely touched my wine. I wasn’t alone in this trance, a glance around the room showed me that my fellows in the crowd were as numb as I.

The Art Store had promised nothing, well nothing other than smut, but it had delivered. No, she had delivered a sensual transcending.

‘I didn’t expect that,’ Florian said his voice raw and rasping.

‘Nor did I,’ I breathed. Surprised I had been able to draw breath enough to speak. A hand fell upon my shoulder, its grip like an iron vice, a gravelly voice growled in my ear, ‘and I didn’t expect to find you two so easily, it is a day for surprises it seems.’

Mind Burble

This piece was written for a workshop, the requirements being it had to less than 800 words and it needed to include the quote ‘Admire as much as you can. Most people don’t admire enough.’ This is a from one of the many letters Van Gogh wrote.

I wanted the reader to be as absorbed in the dance as the main character, for you to forget that these two were actually being pursued.

I think will return to the characters here, though only for other short stories set in their world.

Thank you for reading.