short-story – 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.

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.

Harriers and Guilt

Published on Oct 2, 2025Oct 9, 2025 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

It was a splendid summer morning, warm with no breeze and not a cloud in sight. To Harry it had seemed as if nothing could go wrong. The day lay before him, and he was free as a bird. He would take the path over the hill and stop by the Horse and Cart for a drink.

He wasn’t even at the ridge when the Harrier came along the valley skimming the fields and trees. He felt as if he were a God as he looked down on the plane.

It banked – movements so precise they seemed impossible. Then something went wrong. It pivoted. Spun sideways. Catherine wheeled and slammed into the hillside below Harry. Smoke and debris plumed skywards and moments later a ground shaking roar blasted him. Before he knew what he was doing he was running down the slope towards the burning wreck.

It was raging inferno when he reached it, molten and twisted metal, heat so fierce his skin crackled. But despite this he tried to reach the pilot.

Inga had printed the directions before she left the office, but somewhere along the winding roads a left or a right had gone awry and now she was geographically embarrassed. Though she sensed she wasn’t that lost, things seemed familiar, the way the road swung back and forth across the hillside and slunk between ancient bands of trees. She had known before she set off that this wasn’t far from where Jay had, had his accident. His memorial service the year after had been held in a small grey stone church halfway up a hill, very like this one.

Had that really been forty years ago?

The church had been nestled into the hillside only a mile from the crash site. At the end of the service, she had loitered near the kissing gate, as her sister, now a widowed thanked the minister. A man dressed in a shabby but immaculate suit, lingering at the back of the churchyard caught her eye. One side of his face was a raw puckered ruin, he reminded her of the veterans who drank in the village pub, but she was young. She had asked her asked her father who the man at the back of the church was, and apparently, he was the witness to Jays plane go down. She made to approach him, but he had cut and run the second he saw her headed his way. His haunted face had been seared into her mind though, gaunt checks, shadowed eyes, fire ravaged skin.

The road turned back on itself and there buried in the hedge was a rotting kissing gate.

It was a splendid summer morning, warm with no breeze and not a cloud in sight. Harry shut the shed door behind him and wondered what he might do with the rest of his day, he had finished clearing the ivy from the crypts far faster than he had expected. A car door slammed out on the lane, likely someone coming to view the commonwealth war graves, tourists often stopped in to see them. A woman of about his age was standing in the shade of the kissing gate when he reached it.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I don’t know maybe, I’m lost but other than that, there used to be a church here, right?’ She wasn’t looking at him, but past him into the graveyard.

Harry nodded, ‘Yeah it burnt down a few years back.’

‘Oh.’ A frown flashed across her face. ‘My brother-in-law had a plaque there; I can’t believe we didn’t hear about the fire.’

Harry’s heart stuttered and not just because of his arrythmia. ‘Jay Roberts?’

She turned to him, looking at him properly, her eyes lingered on his scars for the familiar second, ‘Yeah. Was this your church? Were you the minister?’

‘No, I just keep the place tidy.’ She was frowning again; it seemed an expression that came easily to her. ‘I saw the crash.’ Harry whispered.

Her eyes snapped back to him, ‘You were at his memorial.’

‘I wanted to speak to his widow, I wanted her to know I tried, I did, but …’ Harry’s gut twisted, he had been waiting for this reckoning.

She smiled sadly, ‘There was nothing you could have done.’

Then they were embracing, though Harry wasn’t sure who had initiated the hug. When they broke apart, he was lighter, the guilt he had carried having finally found release. He helped the woman -Inga on her way and asked that she pass on his regards to her sister, who he learnt had remarried. He asked after the two children he remembered from the funeral, now both in the forties, with kids of their own. Before she left Inga paused at the gate, ‘I’m glad he wasn’t alone, that you were there.’

‘I did little good.’

‘You tried.’

Mind Burble

This is another blending of truth and fiction. Though for the most part this is a true story, names have been changed and Harry was not injured on the day. He and Inga (my mum) did however meet like this forty plus years after the death of my uncle.

I don’t know what the chances of that were, getting lost in the Lake District, stopping at a familiar landmark to ask for directions and the person who you approach for help is the one who witnessed the death of your brother in law. isn’t the world a strange place? As you can imagine this chance meeting had a big effect on my mum. What were the chances? Have you ever experienced something like this?

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!

Lang may yer lum reek

Published on Jan 27, 2025 by julietrobinsonscot5 Comments

‘Time is priceless, but its free. You can’t own it, you can us it. You can spend it. But you can’t keep it. Once you’ve lost it you can never get it back.’

‘That’s good. A pseudo philosopher once took a shit here. Pass some bog roll.’

Fiona’s hand appears under the stall wall, she’s wearing emerald, green nail polish, which is heavily chipped, I take the sandpaper she offers.

‘Thanks – Call Gregs ma for a good time.’

‘Is there a number?’ Fiona asks.

‘Several.’

‘Don’t drink water, fish have sex in it.’

‘Solid advice.’

The toilet next door flushes.

‘You ladies do know this is gents, right?’ Callum asks.

‘Wash your hands!’ Fiona shouts.

The tap runs and a second later Fiona shrieks. By now I am finished and am hiking up my tights, which have twisted something rotten.

‘Callum Brown!’ Fiona roars. ‘I can’t believe you tee-pee’d me!’

‘Ha!’ Callum snorts.

I unlock my cubicle and stagger out, somehow in the last few minutes I seem to have gotten drunker – the inebriating stench of the men’s toilets. Callum standing at the sink wetting another handful of loo roll.

‘I wouldn’t,’ I warn him.

‘I’ll take my chances.’

I shake my head at his stupidity, Fiona is a force to be reckoned with. After washing my hands and give myself the once over. My eyeliner is halfway down my cheeks, so I push it back up, and smear some concealer over the grey stains its left behind. Callum launches his second barrage of missiles at Fiona, who screams. She is going to kill him.

Her cubicle door flies open, and she stands with her head lowered, eyes ablaze, like a bull about to charge, she’s even kicked off her heels, they lie discarded on the floor. Given the state of the tiles this was either very brave or very foolish of her.

‘Shit!’ Callum shouts and he takes off.

Fiona’s after him like a hound. ‘I’m telling mum!’ she brays.

What is about family gatherings that causes us to revert back to our formative years, I wonder. Perhaps the intellectual who wrote that nonsense about time might be able to answer that question. I leave the bathroom just as Uncle Angus tries to enter it, he looks at me in confusion, so I tell him that this is the ladies.

‘Oh, sorry.’ He wanders down the hall to the actual women’s, stops in front of the door then turns back to me, ‘Una! You’ll get me arrested for being some sort of creep!’

Laughing I make my way back into the packed bar. I know nearly everyone here, villagers, friends and family. The air is heavy with the warmth of our crush and thick with conversation. I can hear Fiona and Callum over all of this, they are still arguing, but unlike when we were young, neither of them is crying and no punches have been thrown. I force my way through to the bar and try to get the young server’s attention, but before I can Betty Tolworth starts bellowing for silence. I glance at the clock, surely it’s not that late? But right enough it’s 11:50. When nobody responds Betty smiles at me, picks up the large metal bell she keeps behind the bar and is rumoured to have once used to break up a fight.

‘Would you like the honour?’ she asks.

Taken aback by this gesture of trust and the offering of such power, I smile devilishly, and snatch up the bell eagerly.

‘On you go,’ she says.

With a heady sense of authority, I start swinging my arm and the bells tolling silences the White Harts custodians (even Callum and Fiona). Carried away by all of this I find myself shouting, ‘Bring out your dead.’

‘When you’re quite finished Una,’ Betty says. She’s standing arms folded and eyebrow raised, but she’s smiling. ‘You all know what that means! Out! All of you! Every last one of you.’

‘What about Brian?’ Someone asks. Brain is fast asleep, propped up at the far end of the bar.

‘I’ll deal with Brain,’ Betty says ominously.

And with that we start making our way out, there’s a scrummage at the door as people pull on coats, search for cigarettes and make sure they have everyone they arrived with. Its cold outside, it’s been a harsh December, even the river has frozen over. We crowd into the small car park like a milling herd of sheep. I spot Duncan and Isles who are huddled smoking by the beer garden gate and make my way over to them, ‘Cuz!’ Duncan greets me as he taps out a cigarette for me, I’m drunk enough to take it, and regret it almost instantly when the smoke hits my throat and the world spins.

The sound of feet rushing over gravel announces Callum’s arrival. He’s flushed and looks pleased with himself, I assume because he’s managed to get the better of his sister. The rest of our clan slowly gathers as we stamp our feet and huddle against the cold. Uncle Angus stinks of whisky, his cheeks are furnace red and he sways on his feet like he’s moving to a tune only he can hear. Fiona managed to sneak two pints out with her, and we pass these between us as we wait.

Behind us the church bell begins to toll, the crowd counts along with the strikes, ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one! Happy New Year!!’ we bellow as one.

Inside the White Hart the piano starts up – Old Lang Syne. I hear the back door to the pub bang open and Betty calls out, ‘Friends and family only.’

And at Hogmanay everyone is family or a friend.

Mind Burble

I am writing at the moment, just slowly and mainly my focus is on editing. I hate editing, and I really struggle to get on with it.
This short piece was written for a workshop. The quote ‘Time is priceless, but its free. You can’t own it, you can us it. You can spend it. But you can’t keep it. Once you’ve lost it you can never get it back.’ – comes from Harvey MacKay and was the prompt we were set for the workshop.

The title – Lang may yer lum reek, is a Scottish new years greeting, or indeed Hogmanay greeting and is essentially a blessing. Lang means long, yer means your and a lum is a chimney. Thus it means may you never be without fuel for your fire, or indeed warmth, health and good fortune.

Inga

Published on Sep 24, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot3 Comments

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 21^st, 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.

Mind Burble

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.

A Job for Life

Published on Aug 13, 2024Aug 11, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot11 Comments

‘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.’

Image – Bing Image creator, a creepy workshop

The Stationary Cupboard

Published on Aug 3, 2024Aug 6, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot12 Comments

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.

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.

Hitch Hiker

Published on Jun 4, 2024Jul 8, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot11 Comments

Dog and I started early. Dog is my crapped-out car’s name when she is behaving. Last month when she failed her MOT, she was the Bitch. But mostly she is a reliable companion who chugs along, panting like an old and faithful Labrador.

It’s a long drive, but one I have done a hundred times. By the time we hit the highlands I had eaten my body weight in snacks and the passenger seat was buried under wrappers, half eaten apples and a bottle of Lucozade I hadn’t been able to open, its lid was apparently cemented on. The drizzle that had been blanketing the hills had turned into torrential rain, the possible beginnings of a second biblical flood.

I rounded a corner, regretting that I hadn’t slowed down, and spotted a figure in my path. I spun the wheel to avoid them, skidded across the road and hit the soft verge which slowed us before we bumped into a fence. It was the gentlest crash going, almost a non-crash, soft as it was.

All the same for a moment the world stopped. The only sound was the rain hammering down on Dog’s roof. I stared at the wipers as they struggled to clear the falling water which cloaked the windscreen like a veil. Then someone tapped at my window and I jolted, rocking in my seat. I had been far away, absorbed by the sheeting rain. Returned by the rapping I was dragged back into the moment and the reality of what had just happened. I had nearly hit someone on the road.

I turned to see an ancient woman peering in at me. She was weathered and it seemed quite possible that she was crumbling under the weight of her years. Her eyes were bright, emerald-green, serpent-like and her concerned face calmed me.

I wound the window down.

I meant to ask her if she was ok, after all I had nearly just killed her. Instead, she offered me relief.

‘You’re alright wee one.’

Her voice crackled like the embers of a fire, warm and reassuring. I nodded, surprised by the fact that yes, I was all right. Relief flooded me, I hadn’t done any harm, this woman, presumably had been the figure in the road and she was fine. So fine, here she was telling me I was all right.

I offered her a lift, hoping she wouldn’t mention that I had nearly run her down. She accepted and, when I started to clear the debris from the passenger seat, she told me not to bother, she would be happy in the back. She clambered in, bringing with her a fair amount of rain and settled in. I took a moment, just to breathe, letting my heart race slow, I was fine, Dog was fine and we hadn’t killed the old woman.

Once sure I was steady enough to drive, I popped Dog into reverse. For a moment she churned mud, but then thankfully she managed to pull free and we were back on the road. During our first mile I was worried I had done the car some damage, but she went well, and the rain was washing the mud from her as we went. Except for my fellow traveller there would be nothing to show for my spin out.

I asked the woman where she was headed and it turned out her destination was also the ferry crossing. I wondered about that. We still had a good fifty miles to go, so I asked if she had been waiting on a bus, though I hadn’t ever seen one out this way.

‘A bus or something,’ she replied.

Her answer caused me to frown as I wondered if perhaps, she been in the middle of the road on purpose, hoping to force a passing car to stop. It would have been easier and certainly safer to stand at the roadside and wave a lift down. But I didn’t like to mention this as I had very nearly struck her with Dog, best not to remind her of that.

I turned the heating up, thinking she would be grateful for the warmth and a chance to dry off. Dog’s windows quickly started to fog and the old lady gave off a peculiar scent as she dried. It reminded me of autumn walks, kicked up moulding leaves and cold frosted nights.

After a while, a grumbling snore echoed from the back of the car. Apparently, my passenger wasn’t going to offer conversation. Not wanting to drive in silence I tried the radio, but it didn’t work. Static hissed from the speakers, though I was sure I heard a voice mixed in there, it was soft and accented. Something about this tickled at the edges of a memory, but I was unable to tie it down.

The remainder of the drive was slow, and thankfully uneventful. Winding roads, tractors and a herd of sheep, no other near misses, or bumped fences. We reached the crossing and I pulled Dog up not far from the slip road. I wanted to stretch my legs and take a piss. I stood stiffly and took a moment to enjoy the view. The rain had finally stopped, and though it was only early evening a heavy moon hung in the sky, its silver light dancing on the calm sea. Behind me the car door opened and closed. The old lady was finally awake. Footsteps approached and she paused beside me.

‘Its beautiful at this time of year,’ she sighed.

I turned. The speaker wasn’t the old lady, this woman had a fresh young voice. I stared at the girl who stood beside me, she was naked and her skin was pearly perfection. She giggled at my confusion and her emerald, green eyes sparkled. They were the old lady’s eyes. Then she stepped towards the water, shedding her skin as she went, before finally as a serpent she entered the cold North Sea and slithered away through the moon-soaked waves.

Mind Burble

Hitch Hiker was written for a workshop and there was a limit of a thousand words, I crept over by three I believe. Writing short stories can often lead to abrupt endings. For me I enjoyed this ending, but I do appreciate that it could be considered unsatisfactory.

The story was inspired by Emily Dickinson’s poem, I started Early – Took my Dog. Which if you haven’t read you are in for a treat when you do.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50976/i-started-early-took-my-dog-656