Fiction: Derelict

Tags

creative writing, fiction, horror, stories

Occasionally I find that I completely forget about a story I’ve written, until someone else mentions it. That’s what happened with this particular piece of fiction – it’s something I wrote for a horror stories under 100 words competition I entered.

If you like your horror short and stabby, pick up the ebook by Popcorn Horror, where you can read the other story I submitted.

Derelict

“Leave her.”

I’ll never leave her.

I wrap myself tightly around her frail body.

He places various implements across the bedside table, one after another.

She shakes and judders violently.

“Leave her.”

Never. I barely recognise my voice.

I hold on tight, clinging to her pale forearms. I can’t let go.

He murmurs low inaudible words. But I won’t let go.

My claws scrape her arms, legs and cheeks. Drawing thick red lines of viscous blood.

He thrusts the crucifix in my face and I collide with the ceiling.

Then falling, falling.

Alone again in the black abyss. All alone.

A spring feast at Summerhall

Tags

edinburgh, edinburgh foodies, fireside collective, foodie event, seasonal ingredients, seasonal produce, spring, summerhall

On the 1st of May, spring came to Edinburgh. But not in the way you might expect. Picture a blustery, damp evening in the capital, with just one haven of floral loveliness glowing through the gloom, where the aroma of freshly baked dough filled the air and girls danced with garlands in their hair.

Summerhall’s Dissection Room was the venue for Edinburgh-based events company the Fireside Collective’s latest foodie creation – the Spring Blossom Party. Stepping into the spacious venue I felt the stresses of my day slip away and my senses piqued by gorgeous spring flowers that adorned every wall, neuk and cranny.

The contrast between the stark, clinical backdrop of the old vet school coupled with the colourful, lavish floral displays – designed by the expert hands of Pyrus – felt pretty special. The juxtaposition tricked the mind, and I felt almost transported into an otherwordly plane.

As with any well thought out foodie event, the magic lay in the detail. We were greeted by elderflower and champagne cocktails, the perfect spring sparkler, and encouraged to make our own flower garlands to wear. The long dining tables were promisingly dressed for a hearty feast, draped with cherry blossom and other such foliage.

the party kicks off at Summerhall

Spring had truly sprung, and along with it came a veritable feast of earthly goodies. The communal element to the feast meant everyone got talking, and the atmosphere felt almost celebratory. We sat down to shots of tangy gazpacho and refreshing mint and pea soup, which added colour to the table and a hint at the tasty delights to come.

eyeing up the salmon rillettes

What followed was a trio of salmon rillettes with a caper and gherkin dressing, served with homemade oatcakes that was simply delicious. The main event came in the form of pizza breads and spring inspired salads, expertly prepared by Sarah-Jane Cooking who specialises in using fresh, local and seasonal ingredients. Particular highlights included the chorizo, blue cheese and walnut pizza bread and the uber refreshing cucumber, coriander and lime salad, which felt like I was literally tasting spring.

The finale came in the form of a cake platter – well hello there, heaven. For a moment I had to remind myself I was in public and the cake board was for sharing, but everything just look so bloomin’ scrumptious. I settled for a slice of the rose petal sponge cake and white chocolate & chilli pie (well it was a feast, after all…) and they certainly didn’t disappoint.

hello, cake

The feast itself was followed by further revelry and Motown-fuelled dancing, probably well into the wee small hours. But, with it being a school night, I skulked off into the night with a smile on my face and a belly full of spring.

The Spring Blossom Party was merely the start of a series of Fireside Feasts run by the collective, with the next shindig planned in collaboration with cakey extraordinaires LoveCrumbs. Quite frankly, I’m already salivating.

Wandering in the West

Tags

craft beer, loch fyne, loch lomond, mull, Scotland, seafood, staffa

Fionnphort on Mull

“Is that the boat for Staffa?” I screamed at the shaggy haired man who trundled towards me up the stone jetty at Fionnphort.

“Yes, it is.” He answered. I watched with dismay as the tiny passenger boat turned around and started to pootle away from us.

“Come back…” I felt as useless as Rose in Titanic.

“OI, MATE, COME BACK.” The shaggy haired chap clearly had more powerful lungs than I. The little boat turned around and came back for me and my boyfriend who’d made into the jetty after a necessary trip to the loo. Thank you, shaggy haired man.

Later that day, standing on the top of Staffa with my favourite bit of man stuff and the salty sea air whipping at my back, I was really glad the boat had turned around. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

The approach was a delicious appetiser of choppy waves, seal spotting and tales from the sea courtesy of our friendly boat master. The clouds that had dulled the mainland were left far behind and perfectly blue skies stretched ahead of us to Staffa.

Staffa

Named by the Vikings, Staffa means stave or pillar island. The basalt rock of the island stood uniform like the keys of a piano reaching from the furious navy sea, the tiny boat cave in its side like a deep dark belly button leading into the mysterious darkness of the past.

on Staffa

Once the boat had dropped us off we explored the island on foot. My favourite part was edging into Fingal’s Cave, where the turquoise sea lashed the rocks and flecks of foam danced through the air in the ancient cathedral-like hollow.

Fingal’s Cave on Staffa

The rest of the West

Scotland’s west coast really is quite special. It’s the first place I’d take visitors to show them the ‘real’ Scotland – rugged, wild and at times jaw-droppingly beautiful.

Loch Lomond from Sallochy Campsite

Our little adventure kicked off on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, with a night at Sallochy campsite. Stunning as the location was, I merely confirmed to myself that I am simply not made for the outdoors – particularly, not camping (unless there’s plenty of beer involved). Still, there was something quite special about enjoying a warm cup of coffee on the pebbled beach…after surviving a night of camping. Coffee had never tasted so good.

Coffee on the banks of Loch Lomond

The next day we ventured further west, to our cosy little guesthouse in Inveraray. Brambles is my absolute favourite, and we were lucky enough to be in the room that had a brand new roll top bath AND monsoon shower. Needless to say I was very clean by the time we left for dinner two hours later.

outside Loch Fyne Oyster Bar

It’s been on my bucket list to try the seafood platter at Loch Fyne Oyster Bar and, oh my, it was all I could have wished for and more! Scallops, mussels, oysters, cockles, crab…basically the finest fruits of the sea Loch Fyne had to offer. The waiting staff were so lovely and we were pleased to find some locally brewed Fyne Ales on the drinks menu too – the perfect match for seafood.

Loch Fyne Oyster Bar seafood platter

The following day we took a speedy trip to Mull for our Staffa boat trip. Mull was far more enchanting than I’d remembered (I’d visited for work before, and I was quite ill at the time so probably didn’t fully appreciate the place). I love the relaxed pace of life on the island, cars saunter along the singletrack roads at 20mph and sheep lazily graze by the roadside.

Isle of Mull

At this point we’d made the ferry from Oban by a hair’s breadth, and, of course, barely made the Staffa boat on time. So we were feeling rather lucky. Perhaps a little too lucky. In our unbridled glee, I forgot to get my sensible head on to check the ferry timetable. So we got stuck on Mull.

Tobermory

My sorrow at missing a second precious night at Brambles was soon washed away by the colourful harbour and cosy pubs of Tobermory. Cue an evening spent drinking more wonderful Fyne Ales by a roaring log fire and playing cards with some of the locals. Perhaps we were quite lucky after all…

Log fire in the pub at Tobermory

Fiction: Face in a Jar

Tags

creative writing, edinburgh, fiction, flash fiction, surgeons hall museum

A little fiction inspired by the weird and wonderful exhibits of Edinburgh’s Surgeon’s Hall Museum…

Amongst the many strange items in my Auntie Meg’s house, by far the strangest was a face in a jar. In her younger years, my aunt had taken her manic grin and unsettling squint across the globe to collect trinkets; scorpions set in glass poised to sting, black shrunken heads that dangled on string, grimacing puppets with ghoulish wide grins from places like Sri Lanka and Nepal. Upon her return she crammed the objects into the shelves of her tiny home, and over the years they had grown as old and as forgotten as Auntie Meg herself. As a child I believed that if you stayed inside the house for too long you might one day find yourself sitting on one of those creaking shelves, or tucked away in a dark bedroom corner gathering dust, find that you too had become one of the trinkets.

The face sat on the mantelpiece suspended in a jar of yellowed water, quite still and appeared to be asleep. One day when she left the room I found myself creeping closer to get a better look. There was a small sticker on the side with 1917 written on it and I remembered she told me it was a solider who had died in the First World War. Pale and red haired like me, his eyelashes looked so very delicate, preserved and softened by time, pressed against the wrinkled skin under his eyes. Those were the lines of a man who cried, there was no doubt those eyes had known tears. I wondered if they had known love too. Perhaps that was why he cried. His cheeks were bristled with stubble that had stopped growing almost a century ago. Twisted nostrils, skewed and black from the bullet hole that killed him through the left side of his nose, thick old fashioned sutures pointlessly held the wound closed. Shutting my eyes, I inhaled; the smells of burning, gun powder, dusty roads, hot dinners, hot sweats, bodies, then in the end the smell of fear. When I looked again two brown eyes, black as the barrel of a gun, stared back at me and I jumped before I realised it was only my own reflection in the glass.

Still he slept, another century of dreams from his jar to come. Curious I reached for it, tentatively feeling the smooth glass against my fingertips, knowing I shouldn’t but I wanted a closer look. I wanted to know all of this man, to see what happened where his forehead stopped, where his skull should have been.

Lifting him toward me I could feel the slip before it happened. The jar out of my hands smashed across the hard wooden floor. The silence that followed seemed to stretch for ninety four long years. Liquid and shards and a lump of soggy flaccid flesh lay sadly at my feet face down, the gristle behind the face now on show. Auntie Meg appeared in the doorway, she looked down and sighed.

“That was your great-grandfather.”