writing – Page 3 – A Year of Time

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.

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

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

From the Archives – A Short Story

Published on May 19, 2024Jun 18, 2024 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

Mortuary Remains

The skull was the colour of a tea stain. Elsa cupped it, in the palm of her hands and peered into the sunken eye orbits which leered unseeingly back at her. Behind her Hattie giggled, ‘She has better teeth than I do!’

Elsa couldn’t help but agree, the five-thousand-year-old skull had surprisingly good teeth. No stains, very little wear and a complete set to boot. And it wasn’t just the teeth, the rest of the skull was very well preserved.

‘She isn’t using them now, maybe you could borrow them,’ she replied as she passed the skull to the teenage boy standing next to her who was clearly a little too excited to be handling such precious remains.

Their tour guide had overheard their conversation. ‘Yes, we believe this individual was someone of high social status, which is why her teeth are so strikingly pristine.’

‘I thought the Neolithic diet meant that most people had poor teeth. Something to do with how they ground their grains,’ Elsa replied trying to sound casual and not to curious about the teeth. She knew this to be a fact, she was after all an archaeologist, but she didn’t want to make their tour guide feel uncomfortable – he was clearly doing his best.

He frowned at her and there was a cool glint in his eyes as he reassessed her from under his wild eyebrows.

‘Well, we believe that several of the individuals buried here come from the upper echelons of society. As we have a fair few skeletons in near pristine condition. Their bones tell us that they did no hard labour and that they enjoyed a good diet.’

Elsa wanted to push him on this. The Tomb of the Seals was a remote and desolate place and five thousand years ago it would have been much the same. Unfavourable farming conditions, poor climate and wild weather stirred up by the surrounding North Sea. Most people here would have lived hard and short lives. Indeed, that was still the case, their tour guide, a local farmer who had uncovered the tomb was evidence of that. He was roughly worn and stunted as if perpetually shrinking from a strong wind.

‘How many bodies did you say there were?’ asked the teenage lad. His voice quivered as he spoke, and Elsa rolled her eyes at the emotion in his voice. He was clutching the skull tightly in one hand whilst running the fingers of the other up and down the nasal bone, like he was petting a dog.

‘During initial excavations we uncovered three hundred and twenty-four individuals. They were interred here over a period of eight hundred years. After Storm Quint we found various other remains, though not the cairn they came from. It was swept out to sea, but the bones, they found their way back to shore.’ Their guide nodded at the skull with the fine set of pearly whites. ‘She was among those. We only have her skull; it was found by a dog walker last summer.’

The tour ended with their guides wife bringing them cups of instant coffee and stale custard creams. As the other visitors milled around the car park, Elsa, under the pretence of needing to relieve herself snuck away. She wanted another look at the skeletons, her professional interest had been piqued. Something just wasn’t right.

She slipped into the old stone byer from which their guide had brought out the boxed remains. It reeked, the smell was so pungent she half expected to trip over a cow or a pig. This wasn’t a sterile environment suitable for storing human remains.

At the back of the byer, several heat lamps hung over some large stone troughs. A strange clicking sound, like thousands of tiny teeth or feet scuttling emanated from the troughs. Covering her nose, she approached, her nerves tingled, her skin crept, every instinct told Elsa to flee, but she didn’t. Instead, she peered into the nearest trough.

Thousands of shiny beetles scuttled and scurried, rived and swarmed under the lamps. What were they? She leant closer, staring at them, her stomach twisting in revulsion. She gagged and cheap instant coffee surged up her throat, which she swallowed down. The mass of insects separated for a second, like peeling skin, revealing the puckered and ruined face of the teenage boy who had asked about the skeletons. They were making quick work of his flesh, stripping it from his bones, his eyes were already gone, and his nose was just gristle.

Behind her the byer door opened. She spun round and there framed upon the threshold stood the tour guide. He smiled at her sadly.

‘Shouldn’t be putting our noses where they don’t belong,’ he sighed. Then he closed the door and turned the key in the latch locking them in the gloom together.

Dyslexia: Challenges in Writing and Reading

Published on May 13, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot6 Comments

Apologies in advance … this post got long, you might need snacks.

I’m dyslexic (why is that word so difficult to spell?). I like being dyslexic. Now, in my ripe old age, having lived with dyslexia for four decades, I view it as a superpower – but recognising my dyslexia as a superpower is a new thing.

I slipped under the radar with my dyslexia until I was eight, copying other peoples work, being really quiet and not drawing attention to myself. But I remember feeling frustrated and stupid. Why couldn’t I do the things that my classmates seemed to find so easy. Along came a new teacher and she spotted that my work was a bit off, for example I would write upside down in a workbook, as I didn’t know which was the right way up if there weren’t pictures to show me, she also noticed the copying. After this I was assessed, and my superpower was discovered.

With the right guidance and teaching methods I learned to write! Though spelling to this day remains an issue, letters muddle themselves, I can look at something I’ve written and because I know what word I meant to use or spell my brain see’s the correct one, when what is sitting on the paper is another word entirely.

With proper instruction and support I learned to read. This shocked my teacher and my parents. The first book I read at the age of eight was The Horse and His Boy, and to my never-ending delight the second was The Hobbit. This was the start of a lifelong love of fantasy and science fiction, I fell willingly down the rabbit hole of these genres.

For people with dyslexia who are nervous about reading – find something you love and go with it. You don’t have to read books which only make it onto the Booker Prize lists, you can read graphic novels, fan fiction whatever it is, if you enjoy it, don’t be ashamed.

My original copy of The Horse and his Boy bought at a school fair and one of many copies of The Hobbit that I own – this one came backpacking round Borneo with me.

I was lucky to be diagnosed with dyslexia when I was young, but my confidence had been knocked. I struggle with self doubt, I don’t feel my work has any worth, and I can be very sensitive if people point out mistakes in my work (especially if its a spelling mistake).

My experience in the 80s following my diagnosis was of support and patience. My mum was a huge factor in this. She was determined I could do well in school and perhaps university. Mum wasn’t diagnosed with dyslexia until she was well into her forties, so a little late. Academically she was crushed, being expelled from school for being stupid. Though she did go to college and worked in advertising, and later administration she never got to go to university which had been a goal of hers. Thankfully things have changed a lot since the fifties.

For anyone looking for support there are many groups and associations now which educate, discuss and offer support for people with dyslexia or those with family members with the superpower. Schools, colleges and university’s offer a huge range of support, recognising that not one dyslexia fits all.

I thoroughly recommend The British Dyslexia Association its a great place to start.

https://www.bdadyslexia.org.uk/

For me since leaving education I have found my fellow dyslexics to be the greatest of cheerleaders. A surprising number of my friends happen to also be blessed with this superpower.

Dyslexia and Writing

When it comes to writing stories, my dyslexia brings mixed factors to the page.

Some of the most creative people I know are dyslexic and I hope I can count myself among their number.

When it comes to reading, watching films or tv shows I’m often way ahead, piecing together the plot, as I find it easy to see the bigger picture. (I am not so sure this happens with my writing though, I often get lost in my plots or my stories runaway, taking themselves in directions I never intended.)

And whilst I might not be the editor of choice for spelling and grammar, I am very good at looking through peoples work and picking out areas that need tweaking.

Things that others can do quickly take me longer, earlier I said I was a good reader, but it takes me a long time to read and follow instructions. I have to go over my work a billion times and even then, mistakes creep through the gaps – I don’t see the spelling mistakes or notice the missing words.

I listen to all my written work, this helps me spot dropped words, misspelt words or indeed random words which have for some reason inserted themselves into my work, but it’s time-consuming. When I was at university, I was given extra time in my exams, this wasn’t a way for me to cheat, it just levelled the playing field. I once tried to explain how long it can take me to write even a seven-hundred-word story to someone, and she helpfully suggested I shouldn’t let myself get distracted so easily.

One of the things I find hardest is when people are critical of my errors. Now, don’t get me wrong of course you shouldn’t have spelling mistakes in a finished story. But I have often been really disheartened by how people approach such feedback.

For example … During a writing course we had to post our ongoing work to an online forum. This wasn’t our finished work, this part of the course was casual and unassessed, so I didn’t apply my usual levels of combing my work. My fellow students were very quick to point out my dyslexic errors and it became disheartening. One student said they struggled to read my posts as they couldn’t get past the spelling mistakes. In the end I stopped using the boards as the content of my work wasn’t judged on the story, the plot development or character arcs it was just being picked apart when I missed a word or misspelt one. I didn’t want to have to tell them about my dyslexia, I didn’t want them thinking I was making excuses, so silence was easier.

I have learned from this – ask people to read what you have written, not correct it. You can get to the corrections once you’ve finished, when you spend endless hours editing your story and wondering why you thought any of this would be fun in the first place.

As I said I listen to all my work, it helps me pick out mistakes. I use spellcheck like its oxygen. I have people I trust who I send my work to, people who won’t cover it in cruel, disheartening red ink. Don’t be afraid to make use of all the wonderful tools that are out there, there’s great software and I know people who use browser programs like Grammarly – I intend to explore this in the future.

If you aren’t dyslexic, you’ll probably never really understand how much of a hurdle it can be, just as I can’t imagine what its like to navigate the world without dyslexia. Isn’t it wonderful how different we all are.

I always wanted to write. When I was little my friend Ali, and I had our own ‘publishing house’ which operated under several names including Otter Books, Sea Otter Books and Ink Books. We produced many works, often about a guinea pig called Gulliver. But I didnt have the confidence to peruse this, indeed one teacher told me I couldn’t be a writer because of my dyslexia. So, I focused on other things – art, philosophy and archaeology, and it wasn’t until years later that I came back to attempting to piece stories together. I might not be knocking the ball out of the park, but I am finally trying to do something I always wanted to.

Some of the surviving master pieces from Ali and I’s work.

So I thoroughly encourage people with or without dyslexia to pursue your creative passions. Don’t listen to people like that teacher who told me I couldn’t write because I am dyslexic. Embrace your creativity, whatever form it takes – there is so much fun to be had immersing yourself in the process of creation. And who knows maybe you will be the next Virginia Woolf or Brandon Sanderson. Or like me, you might just enjoy writing stories for the sake of it.

If you made it this far thank you for sticking with me!!

A Short Story

Published on May 8, 2024May 28, 2024 by julietrobinsonscotLeave a comment

Though it probably isn’t obvious the following short story was inspired by Jack Schaefer’s book Shane. It was written for a workshop, the requirements being it had to include the quote …

“I leave you, to go the road we all must go. The road I would choose, if only I could, is the other.”

Which comes from Murasaki Shikibu’s, The Tale of Genji https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7042.The_Tale_of_Genji a book I admit I haven’t read. The piece also had to be under 800 words. I chopped the quote up and played with it to make it better fit the story I wanted to tell. I had planned to return to this story, but as of yet I haven’t managed to do anything further with it.

Saquin Point

We came late to Saquin Point. Not a bad thing, for if we had been early or indeed on time, I wouldn’t be here to reflect upon what we found. The fire must have died before we passed over the range that separated the town from the Shifting Plains. So, we saw no tell-tale plume of smoke. It was around midday, so likewise we didn’t note an absence of lights. From our vantage point, the town was just a smudge on the horizon.

The first hint of anything untoward came as we passed an outer lying farm, it was mechanised so it wasn’t unusual not to see a soul, but it was odd that the large machines which tended the crops stood idle. Solomon who was taking point radioed the convoy.

‘Eyes right guys,’ there was a tightness to his usually relaxed drawl.

I glanced at the field and spotted what he was referring to, in large black letters someone had scribed on the side of a disabled piece of machinery.

The Gods love Chaos

We debated who the artist might have been as we continued down the road. I suspected it wasn’t the handy work of bored teenagers, but as things were it didn’t really give me cause for concern. Solomon and Nessa, however, were both spooked by the graffiti.

A mob of barking dogs greeted us at the edge of town. We stopped, puzzled by the pack and they distracted us, preventing us from properly taking in our surroundings. I didn’t note the lack of vehicles, I didn’t consider the absence of people or the silence. It was Maya who woke us up to the oddity of the situation, she tossed a half-eaten apple at the closest dog and pulled the pistol she wore on her hip.

I thought she was going to shoot the dog and snapped at her to leave the thing alone. She threw me a withering look.

‘Catch up Bryan.’

I finally took in the ghost town, the silence, and the faint smell of smoke. We left Nessa and Burke to watch the convoy and proceeded on foot, slinking from building to building, guns in our hands. We can handle ourselves; you don’t travel the highways with valuable cargo if you can’t, but still I felt uneasy and I kept thinking back to the message in the field.

As we approached the town centre, signs of violence started to appear. Bullet holes splashed along a wall, burnt buildings, looted stores, an overturned electric wagon and dried blood on the pavement.

The remains of a huge bonfire stained the town square, where once a baobab tree brought all the way from earth had grown. More words had been painted here, encircling the ashes.

The road I would choose, if only I could, is the other

We searched what was left of the pyre. I did so with my heart in my mouth, expecting to find charred remains, but nobody had been burnt in the flames. Thoroughly unnerved we stood in a clump as I checked in with the convoy, but only static answered my hail. Ashen faced, Maya started to talk, but she was cut off by the blaring of a horn, to be precise the airhorn from Solomon’s rig. Its shrill scream came from the opposite side of town, not from the Shifting Plains Road, where we had left the convoy.

Now we moved quickly, rushing through the streets, the horn crying constantly. At the edge of town, we found more graffiti, this time on the side of the school.

I leave you, to go the road we all must go

The horn reduced to a faded ringing in my ears, as I studied the words – did I want to understand what the scribe was saying? A loud retching sound drew me back. It was Maya emptying her guts over her worn boots. Beyond her Solomon was running, pounding down the middle of the road. In the distance, I could see his rig, it sat blocking the highway. I was about to follow when my brain caught up and I properly took in my surrounds. The poles that flanked the road, and which initially I had dismissed as being related to some construction project – the things that hung upon them, not things, people. The people of Saquin Point, they lined the road that led out of town, their throats slit, their eyes gouged out, their hands and feet hacked off.

I started to run, chasing Solomon down the road, refusing to look at the grim and silent honour guard, as I rushed past them. I caught up with Solomon moments after he silence the horn. He tumbled from the vehicle cab, his face a mask. ‘No Nessa, no Burke,’ he choked.

In blood on the side of his truck someone had carefully written,

Which road will you choose?

Cute Dogs and Short Stories (slightly shameful plug)

Published on May 3, 2024 by julietrobinsonscot1 Comment

When someone sends you a picture of a cute dog and it takes you a moment to realise what’s in the foreground!

The Queue is in the short story collection Janet Armstrong, Shabs Rajan and
I put together. I’m touched when people reach out to say they have bought the
book and I am delighted when they say they like it. It surprises me when people
enjoy something I have written.

Short story collections are a wonderful oddity, especially when they include
work from several writers as the stories are so varied, they take you
everywhere, each writer has a different style and way of thinking. There is
something refreshing in diving from one world to another in single book.

We didn’t have a theme when we started putting Wayside together, but we did notice that water often featured in the pieces so that became the loose thread that connected our stories. I stress the loose part! And our writing styles vary wildly, but we enjoy working together and I love Janet and Shabs stories.

Shamelessly sharing a link to Janet, Shabs and I’s short story collection

Excerpt from The Queue …

‘Donald?’

‘What?’ I shook my head; my vision was clouded, and I had a sense of disconnect. I looked around; I wasn’t in the hospital car park.

Seeing my confusion, the speaker gently placed her hand on my shoulder.

‘It’s OK Donald. You had an accident, but it’s ok now.’

‘What?’ I stammered. I must have knocked my head. I looked at the speaker, who glowed with the flush of health that the young enjoy. She smiled kindly at me, and her mouth was filled with perfect, white teeth, the kind that paid for an orthodontist’s retirement.

‘You had an accident,’ she repeated. Her voice was melodious. ‘But it’s OK now, you don’t have to worry.’ She smiled again, a generous smile that was all confidence. ‘But I do need you to join the queue over there.’

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.