7 reasons I’d totally bum Bruges

Tags

beer, belgium, bruges, craft beer

1. It’s full of amazing beer. Belgium is known for its trappist beers, which are made by monks and taste like a little sip of heaven. In Bruges you’ll find the Halve Maan Brewery, finely crafting local tipples Brugse Zot and Straffe Hendrik – the tripel is a potent treat.

2. It’s full of people who love amazing beer. The best kind of people.

3. It’s full of people who love drinking amazing beer in amazing pubs. Must see pubs are the lovely and old Staminee De Garre (try the house brew, mysteriously served with cheese…), the incredibly friendly ‘t Brugs Beertje, Bruges’ oldest drinking den Herberg Vlissinghe, the cavernous and candlelit Poatersgat, and the smoochy, romantic Cafe Rose Red.

4. It has canals. You can take boats on the canals and the tour guide will speak any language you fancy.

5. People live in houses like this.

6. They take chocolate and waffles extremely seriously. As do I.

7. They are also very keen on chips.

A flash fiction horror story

Tags

creative writing, flash fiction, horror, story, writing

First draft of a little horror flash fiction snippet…it’s been a long time since I’ve written any fiction and I’ve only recently merged my writing blog with this here food blog. 

 

The ink black waters of the loch lashed violently at its bank on that bleak October night. The sharp air stung with cold and the teeth of freezing children chattered in their mothers’ arms. Yet not one fire was lit in the village that night, not one candle burned. No one wanted him to come thundering at their door. The village stood in a dark, sombre silence, as if it might almost disappear completely.

They’d snatched the young boy, on the orders of the wicked one. A bastard, an orphan, a lost soul, they were all the same; the children no one would miss. They’d have befriended him and made him feel safe, laughed and joked all the way there. Until they reached the cottage, where they’d turn on him like a pack of rabid dogs. Who knew what terrible things had happened to that boy, you’d try to stop your mind from thinking about it too hard, but the things you heard whispered on the wind in the village were impossible to forget.

I’d imagine the boy screaming, begging for mercy, until I’d pull my youngest close and pray for God to forgive all our damned souls. They would have offered him a chance, a glimmer of hope, by opening the door and exposing the blackness of night. He’d stand there blinking, naked and bleeding, disbelieving that they might actually let him live. They’d give him a head start. Off he’d run like a wild thing, running through the dark as the silent hills of the valley watched. The wicked one would never be far behind.

He liked the chase almost as much as he liked the kill. And the village held its collective breath, waiting for the distant cries to crack the silence. When they came we covered our wee ones’ ears.

When the stillness returned, we crawled into our icy beds, assuring ourselves that for another evening the wicked one was satisfied. That the unspeakable evil that lurked in the cottage was satiated. And, for now, our own were safe.