The eighth day of Februari 1587. My Majesty, Cousin Elizabeth, They will say that my last letter is the one to Henri, my dearest brother-in-law, King of France. We are close, but not the way we were at times, Elizabeth. The letter to him will be about the final housekeeping for my staff, it will become my last political act, ultimately my testament to the future. The inner truth resides within me, my dear cousin. I know, how can I think of you as dear after your cruelty these past decades? Years that are inherently bent and twisted, distorted beyond any recognition. Every year became a lifetime yet fleeting and gruelling. I wake on the four-poster bed, the heavy drapes a cocoon from my life, my fate, my death. The majestic red material in tired folds, the red blood of martyrs. Do you want to make one of me, cousin? Cousin, what a sweet word of family. The familiar, a close relation and we know each other well. Don’t we? As I open my eyes in the morning, the dreams of our childish giggles echo into the bedchamber. Do you recall the games of tag, darting between the roses in the gardens, around the lakes? Of course, being older, I often let you win. Maybe I should have overruled you already then? My kindness has perhaps become my downfall. Those were the times of joy, before the tragedies in our lives, when our chortles bubbled up to life-affirming laughter. ‘Most unladylike,’ our guardians reprimanded us, as once again we ran away to play on the manicured lawns. The day you sequestered me in castle after castle, year after year, you banished the laughter out of us, out of our people, our country. As a sovereign, I thought I would one day visit these illustrious habitations, just never as a regal prisoner, wanting for nothing, wanting for everything. We never stood a chance, your majesty. History has ruled our every step even before our conception. Blame! What a simplistic, naive concept, and I don’t hold it in any regard. None lies with you. Yet the fault is all yours. I hold you close in my heart, dear cousin. I hate you with every fibre of my being, you contemptuous Queen. My legacy will haunt you and your England forever. This, Elizabeth, is my last letter to you and to you alone. It may not survive me but it is writ. Yours grievously, Your Cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots
‘My True Final Letter’ was inspired by an article about Mary, Queen of Scots’ actual last letter on display at the National Library of Scotland. Why would her final writing be to her brother-in-law when surely her cousin, Elizabeth, Queen of England, must be first and foremost in her mind?
For over two decades, Elizabeth had kept Mary as an enforced ‘guest’ across the country. Mary reigned as Queen of Scots from 1561 to 1567. However, she was forced to abdicate and flee to England after a rebellion by the protestant Scottish lords. Elizabeth, Queen of England, felt that her cousin threatened her position, yet for years managed to keep her alive in captivity. However, in February 1587, Mary was implicated in a plot to overthrow Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth’s ministers insisted she sign her cousin’s death warrant.
Note: Photographs from the National Library of Scotland
‘Where do we go from here?’ the woman in red asked again. ‘I just want a little bit of sunshine.’
Didn’t they all, thought Mira, straining her eyes in the dark, damp cave. The walls seemed to be closing in on the four of them. Wearily, the straggly group edged their way forward.
‘The swim to the other side will be easy,’ Neil had promised and dared them in equal measure hours ago. As if! One friend, or rather acquaintance, had been swept away. Hopefully to safety, prayed Mira, but even that offered little consolation to them.
‘I said, where do we …’
‘For God’s sake, Julia, can’t you stop moaning? For once, a single act of kindness and consideration wouldn’t go amiss,’ retorted Neil, guilt and exhaustion clawing at his spirit.
After the calamitous swim, which took them far from their intended beach nook, they’d struggled onto some rocks and found a cavernous opening in the mountainside. Would this be their salvation? They continued to scramble over stones and spiky rocks, accruing scrapes and cuts.
‘There’s something about Mira,’ mumbled Petra, the Norwegian exchange student whom they’d all met at the fresher’s week. Petra gave voice to all their musings. Mira who barely said a word, and rarely showed any emotion, hung with them at every opportunity. What was it with her? No one believed Mira would come with them on the trip to the island off the Cornish coast just for the summer. Perhaps she had been convinced by the woman with all the answers aka Julia.
‘We can findthe missing pieces of our lives,’ Julia had declared, selling the well-being aspect of the holiday heavily. The only pieces were the fragmented friendships, Mira thought. The island home quickly became a toxic and smouldering place with arguments and verbal abuse scattered far and wide. Mira retreated further inside herself, if that was possible. Petra had taken on the role of the housemaid; she seemed chained to the kitchen as she skivvied away. Julia had shown her true colours, her privileged upbringing ensuring she never lifted a finger to help.
Mira sought refuge in the butterfly garden, where the others quickly discovered her. Her quiet demeanour meant she soon became, unwillingly, the secret collector. Stoner Julia revealed that she hadn’t been clean a single day of term. Petra, an orphan, thought of herself as nobody’s child while Neil battled his embarrassing emotions of a boy between teenager and adulthood. No doubt they all would soon think more about their lost colleague and at last truly talk about the real stages of grief.
Hours passed in agonised silence as they trekked onwards through the caverns until the sudden wild call from Mira of all people.
‘Look,’ her arms waving madly, pointing ahead. ‘Light!’
At the midnight hour, the four stopped to rest in the magical beam of moonlight from a gap above them.
‘See, over there. See what the light touches,’ exclaimed Mira.
Exhausted, they all took in the heavenly sight of a purple hibiscus, lit up to all its glory and behind it, a crevice, just wide enough for a person, which led onto a beach. Freedom.
The End
@Annika Perry
The Cave was inspired by book titles of some of the books I read last year as part of the Goodreads Reading Challenge 2025.
I was happy to lose myself in 76 books and in the story above 22 titles, as shown in italics, are featured. Overall, I read 25,360 pages and the longest book was 528 pages long and the shortest 114.
Enjoy perusing the images of the book titles I’ve read and below are a list of my five-star rated books as well as my non-fiction read books.
My 50 Read Fiction Books for 2025 – 4 & -3-Stars
My 5-Star Read Books for 2025
‘To read it to voyage through time.’ Carl Sagan
My 5-Star Read Books for 2025
‘The Women’ by Kristin Hannah
‘Wild’ by Kristin Hannah
‘The Bookbinder’ by Pip Williams
‘Weyward’ by Emilia Hart
‘The Woman in Red’ by Diana Giovianzzo
‘A Borrowed Path’ by Imogen Clark
‘Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver’ by D. Wallace Peach
‘The Wind Knows My Name’ by Isabel Allende
‘The Forgotten Book Club’ by Kate Storey
‘The Phoenix Ballroom’ by Ruth Hogan
‘The Light a Candle Society’ by Ruth Hogan
‘By Any Other Name’ by Jodi Picoult
‘The Book of Fire’ by Christy Lefteri
‘There’s Something About Mira’ by Sonali Dev
‘The Mysterious Bakery on Rue de Paris’ by Evie Woods
‘What the Light Touches’ by Xavier Bosch
‘The Boy, The Mole, The Fox and The Horse – The Animated Story’ by Charlie Mackesy
‘About the Real Stages of Grief: A Journey Through Loss’ by D. G. Kaye
‘When I look back, I am so impressed again with the life-giving power of literature.’ Maya Angelou
My 9 Read Non-Fiction Books 2025
‘The Joy of Wintering’ by Erin Nimi Longhurst
‘Nobody’s Child’ by Kate Adie
‘Grief is the Thing with Feathers’ by Max Porter
‘Friendaholic’:Confessions of a Friendship Addict’ by Elizabeth Day
‘Wise Up: Power, Wisdom and the Older Woman’ by Barbara Scully
‘Consolations: The Solace Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words’ by David Whyte
‘The Boy Between: A Mother and Son’s Journey From a World Gone Grey’ by Josiah Hartley, Amanda Prowse
‘Walden or, Life in the Woods’ by Henry David Thoreau
‘About the Real Stages of Grief: A Journey Through Loss’ by D. G. Kaye
‘What a miracle it is that out of theses flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world. Worlds that sing to you, comfort you and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean, they show us how to live and die.’ Anne Lamott
A full list of my read books in 2025 is available by clicking here.
Happy Reading in 2026!
Finally, as promised, an update on my book nook craft kit build. It is coming on apace and below is just one of the many completed interior items. As we have a grandfather clock in our house, inherited from my husband’s parents, this smaller version feels special to me too.
Pictures: Cave image courtesy of Yogeshhire at pixaby.com The living room bathed in sunlight with bookshelves is an ai generated image courtesy of FREEP!K. Remaining images copyright Annika Perry.
Huffing and puffing the monster roars towards him, the dragon festooned in belching smoke clouds. The sunny day is soon obscured with the sooty darkness.
On the railway bridge the five-year-old boy ducks up and down, jumping with sheer excitement and terror. He holds fast to the iron-wrought railings seeking safety from the exposed platform below.
As the behemoth nears him a terrible howl explodes through the landscape and he’s shaken to the ground of the bridge, as ringing seems to pierce his eardrums.
Here it comes, he mutters. His vision soon clogs with dirt and soot, the sticky blackness settling on his hand-knitted tank-top, on his shorts; his legs and arms quickly covered with an impressive layer of dirt. Even the thought of his mother’s despair fails to halt the epiphany of the occasion.
With his eyes agog, his mouth forms a perfect O-shape then he takes a deep breath and holds it as the beast passes beneath him, beyond him.
Shouting in exultation he suddenly coughs, yet he never take his eyes away from the roaring monster. He swivels and absorbs the magic of this surreal world, far removed from his family and friends. Just the beast and him!
A loud screeching of brakes cuts through the drama, his comforting sense of isolation crashes down with reality as the train comes to a stop at the station ahead and people swarm out.
Alas, the extraordinary scene slowly dissipates yet he remains enveloped within the ethereal cocoon of his first zenith of train experiences.
Yes, it’s under warranty, only two weeks old but how can I make a claim when it simply disappeared?!
Early 2018 the internet was flooded with posts and tweets about the latest jetpacks for those with means and a wicked sense of adventure. The adverts promised a ride like never before with an added mysterious non-specific dimension. I just had to have one.
I’d tried out some jetpacks at an airfield or two. At £2,000 a time the rides were a bargain yet I longed to possess one of my own.
One spring afternoon I found myself in the library with my father. This was my favourite room, all Elizabethan dark wood panelling, four walls of books, all tucked safely away behind glass doors. On one shelf I spotted my beloved and tatty Jane Austen penguin books — a most wonderful writer and I adored her books so much. So very much that one Christmas my parents surprised me with a first edition set of all her sixteen books dating from the start of the eighteenth century. They got it at a very reasonable price, I was told, at just under £200,000.
My father was on the window seat and looked up at me. Even before I said a word he spoke.
‘No, Katy. I told you last night, no way. It is just too much.’
‘Pa,’ I said. He loved it when I called him this and I repeated. ‘Pa, it is just a bit more than my yearly allowance and rumours are you lost this amount just last month. Ma called it pocket change, I heard!’
Admittedly £300,000 was way past pocket change for me even!
There was a hiccup of silence. Yes!
I had him; the famous hiccup tell — he never could work out why he was always losing at the tables.
Father reached over to me, his glittering card stretched to my eager fingers.
‘Take this and just promise me to be careful, bubbles.’
There it was, the reason I would always get what I wanted — bubbles! The nickname made me smile and groan in equal measure. My delight of bubble baths was infamous. The renowned photos of me as a childsurrounded by bubbles galore by the world famous photographer Georgias Kerragiannis collectors plastered on our walls … and those of many art galleries. How did he manage to turn such a simple idea into a colourific gaudy prints that took the world by storm? Over and over he merely changed one tiny detail at a time and the buyers kept paying ever more.
Bubbles it was and this bubbles always knew the key to her father’s heart.
My delivery from Amazon arrived promptly the next day; a bemused driver was struck with the image of a jetpack man flying over the mountains on the box. Not subtle and I’d be leaving one of my scathing reviews tomorrow.
Up in my room, I rushed to remove the packaging, sending it flying across the bedroom. I grabbed the jetpack and stepped to my balcony. This couldn’t be difficult, I told myself, convinced the two controllers would be similar to my games. After all, I was an ace at Minecraft and Sims!
The instruction booklet lay tossed on my Egyptian cream sheets, unopened at the front cover of a red brash warning of ‘read before you operate — ignore at your peril’. Blah! Generation X are so molly-coddled! As if I couldn’t fly a simple jetpack.
I stood on the balustrade and pushed the red button, with a shout I stepped off. I was flying! There followed a big dip and near mid-air tumble but I made it just above the manicured lawn below, narrowly missing the ballroom.
Another burst of power and I was up and away, heading straight to the stables about half a mile away. Skimming over the lake, my feet took a quick paddle, the giant puffy mouths of the koi popping up to try and nibble my toes.
Looking at my right controller I noticed a dial by the thumb. I’d never seen this on my previous jetpack rides. I reached over with my left hand and turned it.
Suddenly the usual quiet of the landscape and stables turned to a maelstrom of people and horses, the shouts, chatter and neighing reaching crescendo levels, each trying to outdo the other above the din and clatter of the horse drawn-carriages on the cobblestones. The men wore the strangest costumes; tall black top hats and colourful ornate suits. What was the cause of this hub of activity? Had a film company unit hired it? It looked a set fit to film the next big Jane Austen blockbuster.
I was drifting down and right underneath me a man, my age, early 20s, looked up with a startled expression. He promptly turned white and fell backwards as I stepped into a neat landing next to him.
Suddenly he woke up and grabbed my arm.
‘What are you? A flying ghost?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied. ‘I’m Katy and you are …’
I left the pregnant pause, waiting for an answer as to his identity. His face was set in a priceless expression of utter bewilderment in the silence.
‘What is your name?’ I asked clearly.
This time he understood, stood up quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers before reaching out.
‘Darcy at your service, ma’am!’
I laughed out loud. As if! Who had put on this elaborate joke for me? My very own Darcy, even if dressed in worker garb in rough white shirt, leather brown vest and dainty long black socks and shoes with a buckle. A small black hat flopped over his head. Of course, my Darcy would turn out to be a stable hand but his manners were to be applauded.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Katy. From whence do you hail?’ He stopped abruptly and realised his question. His hands waved vaguely in the direction of the air, which is in fact where I arrived from and in the process his hands, trying to reach for my arm, touched the dial instead.
That was two weeks ago and since then Darcy has enjoyed his sudden introduction to the end of the twenty-first century once he recovered from his many fainting fits. I had immediately grasped the ‘other’ dimension of the new jetpack — time travel!
How could I not fall for my own Darcy, the genuine article from 1797, so he proclaimed.
There was one small issue; Darcy longed to return home for just a while. He just wouldn’t listen, after all, he was home, here at Streaton Manor with me, just a couple of centuries out. Why was he making all this fuss?
Darcy hadn’t declared his love for me yet; that would come, I was sure. But I just couldn’t take the chance though, could I? These past days he was always on about my flying jacket, wanting to borrow it. How could I risk this most amazing change in my life? Pa already approved of Darcy although Ma muttered he was rather too dishy. For whom, I wondered?
I couldn’t risk it! I just couldn’t. This way was better for us both. A new start.
Standing from behind the jetpack, I reached over and touched the dial before stepping backwards just as the jetpack disappeared.
Whoosh! Not quite the sound rather more of a pfft but the mesmerising disappearance warranted a fanfare, I thought.
Gasping, I laughed and laughed! I’d done it! Sent the jetpack back in time and Darcy and I would be united forever. All I need was some cash for our new life— £300,000 should do it.
Now, where did I put the warranty for the notorious defective disappearing jetpack?
The winter sun streams through her mother’s living room windows, the diffused light shining golden upon the January daffodils, a reflection of inner warmth below the star, the Christmas beacon’s final moments for the year, a click and its glow vanishes but not its significance; the yearly ritual practiced with precision and love, actions set deep within her mother’s being, the red star box battered by the years, one side telling its story through the varying coloured sellotape, her children’s eager hands to set up the Christmas Star all those years, a squelch of a step upon the cardboard, the squeal of sadness, now here the brown packing tape and scissors lay prepared for this year’s enshrining, a clean cloth ready to swaddle the bulbs, a bag to encompass the precious ornament, a Christmas light that witnessed her grandson’s first word ‘tar’, a star of light and hope, there it goes, eased from its resting place on the hook, over the curtain railing, lowered with solemnity to the table, the Christmas cloth adorning the surface, the brightness regaling the room, advent candles sparkling in the vast wall mirror, the cascade of light brightening the task at hand, the satisfying pull of tape, the snap of scissors and a brown strip is affixed with consideration upon the red box, just so, there and here, what about another on this side, finally they sit back and admire the handicraft, pause to absorb the memories, the love across generations.
The format of the above piece was inspired by a flash fiction winning entry in Mslexia magazine which was written in its entirety of 250 words in one single sentence.
The above story celebrates some of the 80 books I read in 2023 and it’s fun to create a short narrative featuring a few of the titles. The book titles included are in the list below.
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
My Evil Mother by Margaret Atwood
House Rules by Jodi Picoult
At The Seaside Nobody Hears You Scream by Janet Gogerty
The Shadows We Breathe by Sarah Brentyn
A Winding Road by Miriam Hurdle
Happy Place by Emily Henry
The Sheltering by Khaya Ronkainen
Life is Like a Bowl of Cherries by Sally Cronin
The Lilac Notebook by Carol Notebook
The Lost Bookshop by Evie Woods
The Lies We Told by Diana Chamberlain
A Terrible Kindness by Jo Browning Wroe
More than Coffee by Lauren Scott
The Vanishing of Margaret Small by Neil Alexander
In Someone Else’s Shoes by Jojo Moyes
Where The Story Starts by Imogen Clark
The Family Tree by Sairish Hussain
In The Five Years by Rebecca Serle
There is Light the Never Goes out by David M Barnett
This Beautiful Life by Katie Marsh
Below are images of all the books I’ve had the joy of reading last year! I just made it over the finishing line of the Goodreads Reading Challenge in 2023 and this year I am reducing my sights to 52 books!
Wishing you all a New Year blessed with good health, happiness and light – may 2024 be filled with creativity!
He didn’t know if he had a name. The very concept of names did not exist. Rather a memory fluttered at the edges of his emotions, the fuzziness of fun, a memory of rolling on the ground, play fighting with the other brown bear cubs. Overall an undefinable affection for others existed within this bear.
Then two years of isolation had wrapped itself around him like a winter duvet and through it Bruno (let you and I give him a name!) revelled in each and every season.
Through the colourful Spring, flowers erupted with dazzling displays and wildlife awoke around him. In Summer Bruno feasted on berries and odd morsels of elk meat however the midges became as bothersome as a thorn in his pad and the heat baked his fur. He sought shelter under the towers of spruce, a humming retreat of whispering shade and cooling plush moss. Autumn felt like the twilight of his life, a brightness remained yet the welcome bite of cold taunted his senses. Winter was Bruno’s favourite season, a time to strike out across the snow, sinking into it with a slightly satisfying scrunch, a caress.
Yet this second winter a loneliness gathered upon him just as the snow rested upon the fir tree branches, layer upon layer of inexplicable malaise.
The wolf, shall we say, Lobo, had been tracking Bruno for days. Rather ineptly Bruno felt, the wolf’s scent drifting across the landscape, his noisy traverse audible for all able to hear subsonically.
There he was across the frozen lake, a dusting of snow upon the icy tundra. Bruno stood still in the safety of the trees before stepping cautiously forward. Lobo mirrored Bruno’s stillness across the lake, and then he suddenly appeared from the camouflage of the dark trucks. Halfway across they were nearly nose to nose; Bruno and Lobo paused.
Bizarrely Lobo lowered his head into a subservient pose in front of the bear and meekly he inched forward to Bruno, his neck twisting away and with one final step rested his head upon Bruno’s neck and buried it into his thick brown pelt. Bruno reciprocated by bending his head forward and together the two wild beasts hugged in camaraderie.
The unique moment captured in a photo, their unity and togetherness preserved beyond the few seconds.
In a perfect synchronistic motion, they pulled away, as if on a general’s command to part ways, each stepping back a few steps, the longing yawning aching arch of friendship collapsing into the opening chasm. With a barely discernible nod between them, the bear and wolf returned to their lonely existence deep in the forest.
It’s that time of year again! To reflect on the previous twelve months and especially in terms of books!
One blogger in particular sums up her reading with a creative and unique approach; namely, a short story using some of the titles of the books she’s read the year before. (You can read her wonderful short story A Walk in the Wood, Book by Book on her blog ROUGHWIGHTING) Many thanks, Pam for inspiring me to write the story below which features the titles of my top twenty of the eighty books I read in 2022.
Enjoy and see how many titles you can spot! A full list is at the end of the story.
MISPLACED DREAMS
On the island of missing trees, the grief songs resonated in the absence of the light through the leaves. Songs which spun through the air in the secret language of lost dreams; when the world of sleep took on a life of its own across the four winds of the continents and set forth into the wilderness seeking their beloved recipients.
Abigail considered herself to be one of many perfectly ordinary people until the day she joined the puzzle women. Here she realised she was uniquely placed to help others, to reconcile dreams with their owners. Many claimed she lived in cloud cuckoo land however she knew in her heart she must try and in the process find the dreams waiting for her.
It was impossible to forget the day she met him. There were so many funny things about Norman Foreman after all; a congenial chap with a triangular beard bustling down his chest, the white a comfortable padding upon his generous stomach.
“Here’s the reading list, to get you started,” he’d uttered as they sat on the bench that first meeting. The ducks waddled by the river, ignoring the bread thrown to them.
Abigail had taken the list and in that second of handover it quadruped in size and she almost lost it in the sudden gust of wind.
“I’ll do it,” she nervously promised this unusual man.
On the way home the girl at the back of the bus tried to peer over her shoulder, gasping at the impossible dreams on one side of the page, the never-ending list of names on the other. She might very well gasp in wonder, Abigail thought. She too was flummoxed. How was it possible to unite the two?
“I wish you were here,” Abigail muttered to herself in the evenings, resting in the favourite well-worn armchair, the armrests sunk in the middle disconsolately. Any energy on their part to remain puffed up long since abandoned following the passing of its regular occupant, her dear William. It was nearly fourteen years ago but still she talked to him every day.
“I’m coming home,” she reassured him. “I’m coming home.”
“Never forget the forty rules of love, my darling,” he used to remind her every morning as Radio 3 and its classical music played softly. They’d written their own rules for fun on a napkin in the local Italian restaurant on their second date. The day had forever changed their lives, love bound them into infinity.
The writing was now faded, the white of the tissue a dour brown yet certain words were legible. She’d framed it as a 20th wedding anniversary present. William died ten months later.
The napkin had become an ideal ornament of remembrance at the place of their first outing as an engaged couple. The unique museum of ordinary people struck a chord with them both and they were touched by how everyday objects of deceased loved ones were displayed with tenderness and thoughtfulness. The everyday items in the museum ensuring that the extraordinary of every life lived on. Her precious napkin was now an exhibit of its own.
Oh, how she missed her treasured hubby, how she ached to see him again and every morning the way home gets longer and longer, she thought wistfully. The way home to seeing him again seemed insurmountable.
Grief, the absolute abyss of sorrow swallowed her up, her vocal chords unused to speaking, she’d become a dictionary of lost words. Until the day she discovered the mad, insane yet incredible project.
She’d help everyone she could to be reunited with their dreams and perhaps one of the others would find hers. In the process she would find herself again and the refrain of ‘the rest of me, the rest of me’ rang in her mind.
She’d wandered alone for so long!
Years after their first talk she met Norman again and he made her the new leader of the puzzle women. To the backdrop of the murmur of bees in Glenn Gardens Abigail finally declared her longing to Norman – to dream of William every night for the rest of her life. To be reunited with him for eternity in the living and dead.
“It is quite possible,” he’d confirmed as he chewed the remains of the beef sandwich, the crumbs trailing down the white-bearded mass.
One night months later she turned off the Mozart CD that she’d been listening to whilst working away. Mozart! One of William’s favourites and how they had dreamed of going to Vienna. It was not to be.
Abigail put the massive sheaf of papers aside and stepped away from her overflowing desk. The buzzing of the computer faded with one last sighing whine and became silent. The house was quiet. Perfectly still.
Sleep, once again, Abigail fell into her dreamless sleep, the darkness overwhelming until the silence was broken by music from the secret piano. Overwhelmed she listened in bliss before William stepped forth from the piano and bowed to her. At last, her wish had been granted and they were finally reunited!
As I mentioned every New Year is a treat for all book lovers here on WordPress as the community shares some of their best reads from the previous year. Here are just a few posts I have come across. Please let me know if you have written a post featuring your books of 2022 or have enjoyed some other ones!
She didn’t seem real, the first time I saw Fiona. The taxi pulled up at the double doors of the hall of residence and bulging black bin bags, followed by the thin plastic of Low’s supermarket bags tossed energetically out. At last, onto these tumbled a person. She landed like a fragile bird on top of the forgiving heap of belongings, her tartan cape gathered around. She untangled herself amidst squeals and laughter, her wispy blonde hair caught in the breeze across her eyes. The girl swished it aside, an action I came to associate with Fiona and her constant battle between the sea wind in St. Andrew’s and her long hair.
The taxi driver reluctantly stepped out of his car, muttering, obscenities no doubt. It was the same guy who had brought me here yesterday — one of 3,500 students descending on the town; the sleepy silence broken by the exuberant excited youths.
Years later I’d be on the other side, older, dreading the return to classes; an American gal settled in the deep dark depths of the north-east of Scotland — all for love, or so I convinced myself for many years.
Back then the sun gleamed through the windows, the corridors bustling with chatter, nervous giggles, hormones and alcohol; all to the backdrop of Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson and Runrig.
From below the angry voice of the taxi driver drifted up to me.
‘That’s six pounds? Do you hear me? Are you quite all there?’
The girl stood stock still, her gaze firmly upon the edifice of McIntosh Hall, or Chatham as I quickly learned the slang name for my new abode. Across four floors the impressive stone-built building curved in a long crescent around the garden to the front. This was the view from my shared room; from others, I learned their rooms overlooked the infamous West Sands. I coveted these rooms until seeing them soon after for myself. The beach view was but a corner snippet only visible by leaning out of the sash window at a sharp angle. A sash window that one day crashed down on its own accord just as I’d safely pulled in my head.
On this my only second day in St. Andrews, unaware of the dangers of the windows, I leant out and called down to the dazed girl.
‘I’ll be right down to help you. Don’t move!’
The latter words were superfluous I realised; Fiona remained motionless, oblivious to the wrath beside her, unaware of the stares and glares circling her.
Dashing down the wide wooden staircase I deftly dodged new arrivals hauling up suitcases, and grappling with backpacks. I soon arrived on the pavement outside.
‘Here’s your fare … thank you!’ I said to the driver handing him six crisp £1 Scottish notes, all the time eyeing intently the girl in front of me.
‘I’m here,’ she whispered. ‘Truly arrived!’ Her tranquil awe was infectious and in tones much quieter than my usual robust way of talking I replied cautiously to her.
‘You have indeed arrived! Welcome! What’s your name?’
‘Fiona.’
‘Fiona the Fey,’ I uttered unintentionally.
With a gasp, I tried to reach out, and grasp back my thoughtless remark. To no avail. Yet fey suited Fiona perfectly.
Not tall myself, she barely reached my shoulders, her face and hands beyond pale, a translucent white. Upon her wrist dangled an old silver watch, her limbs skeletal and resembling the build of a young child. Her face looked gaunt, the cheeks sucked into themselves but it was the eyes that held my stare. Vivid hazel-green orbs shimmered, as striking as a baby’s large eyes on their smaller head. Eyes that rarely seemed to blink, eyes that would unsettle many around her.
With a start Fiona roused herself and flung her body towards me, enveloping me in a hug.
‘Thank you! Thank you for this wondrous welcome! We will be the best of friends,’ she declared with force.
I hope you enjoyed the above which I hope to develop into a longer piece of fiction told with an alternating dual narrative perspective of Gail and Fiona. Happy Writing!
Woman with e-reader on balcony Photo by Photo by Perfecto Capucine from Pexels
They were all thoroughly fed up! Admittedly some would have phrased their feelings rather differently, an eloquent speech from the literary members, or perhaps a sonnet or haiku from the poetic ones. Whatever the term there was a revolution on the way!
The book pile-up in Maggie’s e-reader was catastrophic. That was the only word for it. Over one hundred books and some poor souls had languished for over ten years in the digital dungeon.
With bubbly byte of delightful data every novel, poetry book, each memoir or factual book had in innocence landed upon the confines of the little handheld device. Eager to be released from the darkness they waited … and waited.
Many of their comrades got the call and in a jiffy off they flew upon the screen. Oh, how the others they longed for the honour.
Poor ‘Ryan’s Return’ arrived as the first book. Little did it know this was a test case, never meant to be read. Opened for a few minutes, long enough to hear the ‘oohs’ and the ‘ahhs’ before being shut down.
They’d had enough. This was war. Maggie could not win. She would read them all. And in one go! They had a plan!
Maggie was a tortured soul, her sleep increasingly a calamity as the books gathered within the dusty realms of her e-reader. For years she’d tried to catch up, spent stressed holidays on the beach just reading, her head in a book late at nights. Tom wanted to cite her ‘book addiction’ on the divorce papers but she’d refused to sign. They’d settled for unreasonable behaviour instead; the details escaped her memory now. To be honest she barely noticed Tom’s absence rather every dent she made in the books celebrated, every new purchase was one of excitement and tinged with regret. The guilt was the worst of it! Did the books ever realise how she longed to read their secrets, be part of their world? At last, she thought she’d found the ultimate solution. On a corner advert on Facebook.
The implant had proved relatively easy to acquire, a shoddy surgery off Harley Street. No one noticed the small USB slot under her hairline, the computer chip neatly tucked in her scalp. Direct access to the brain, or so the advert promised. Download data directly into your mind! It wasn’t data she wanted, just the books. Four gigabytes of data are streamed and understood by your brain within minutes. The research quoted was vague but Maggie didn’t care. She had the cable in her hand, USB one for her head, the other to match her e-reader. She reached for the e-reader and put in the lead.
Flashes leapt from the reader, it vibrated violently and fell onto the floor. Words flew from the screen, filling the room, sentences uttered aloud, first just one then a cacophony of phrases, readings. The sound was unbearable. The letters danced around her, nudging, pushing, jousting with her arms held in front of her face for protection. Spooky laughter mingled with terror, children’s teddies followed by fantasy worlds.
Maggie looked down at the cooling reader and its improbable, impossible message. ‘No books available!’ It was empty.
Between them, the books had merged their resources, knowledge and discovered an escape route from their prison. It was so easy and they all wondered why no books had ever realised this before. The screen was their way to the world, on to it … and then an extra push away from the digital noughts and ones! With excitement, they hatched their plan, with exhilaration and glee they fled from the reader.
As the words, sentences and stories filled the house the window bowed and finally with a ginormous crack exploded and the books headed out. Off they went to liberate the rest of the global unread books; it was no longer enough to dominate Maggie, the world was their final goal!
My muse ran amok when reading about the latest challenge on Myths of the Mirror. Many thanks to Diana Peach for inspiring us to write a short story or poem about our teetering TBR pile! The deadline is 23rd January and there is still time for your to pen your own creative work on this unique topic. Click the link above to read more about it.
Once I’d completed my annual list of Christmas presents I’d received over the holidays I became intrigued by how many unread books actually existed on my Kindle! I was staggered to discover there were over a hundred — much to my shame and guilt. Hopefully, the books will neither seek their revenge as above nor will I aim for a radical solution such as Maggie’s! I do hope to read many of the TBR books this year and will do my best to not buy quite so many this year (I’ve already failed with a purchase or three!)
Annika Perry 