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.
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!
It was an honour to take part in one of Yvette Prior’s searching and insightful interviews over the weekend! Our discussion ranged from my books to advice for writers, from space aliens to living life to the full … plus much more!
Comments are closed here and I look forward to catching up with you all on Yvette’s wonderful blog!
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Good Morning Readers. Today I am featuring the Priorhouse Interview with blogger and author Annika Perry. ANNIKA: Hello Yvette and thank you so much for the invitation to take part in one of your interviews! It’s a joy to be here! The tagline to my website sums me up in a few words: ‘A writer influenced by her Swedish heritage and Yorkshire upbringing.’ It is this dual background that is the foundation of not only my writing but also my life...
To read the rest of the original post please click here.
‘Dear Creative Spirit’ is one of the first exercises set by Julia Cameron in her ‘The Artist’s Way’ and after my initial hesitation of what to write, I found myself inspired as I addressed my own Creative Spirit.
I came across a rough draft of this recently and since have edited it to this final version here – I hope it gives others the ability to trust in their gift. Lack of confidence in one’s capabilities is often the hindrance to even start writing and sharing one’s work.
Clearing out is a task I throw myself at with glee! For some this is a chore, understandably so, whilst for myself, the opportunity to revisit past items, letters, papers is an act of time travel!
Amongst the haul, I unearthed a calendar beneath a desk, papers were strewn on top, dust neatly and evenly covering the surface. I cleaned down the pretty cover and flipped through the images.
The artist is Erkers Marie Persson and for many years she painted for the Swedish Calendar. In her paintings, she tries to capture the wonder of bygone eras when generations mixed easily with each other. The pictures included in my post are taken from this delightful calendar which our company gave away to customers! Thankfully, I retained one as well!
Over Easter, I will be enjoying a ‘home-holiday’ and taking a mini-blogging break, popping in now and then. I wish you all a peaceful and relaxing holiday time!
“A childhood without books — that would be no childhood. That would be like being shut out from the enchanted place where you can go and find the rarest kind of joy.” Astrid Lindgren
It was twelve minutes past one the day Sadie ran out of words. A Monday she recalled, just after lunch. She’d retreated to the arbour to the east of the garden, the sunlight drizzling in through the vine leaves, the insipid summer heat dissipated by the shade.
Lunch itself had been an unremarkable affair, the legs of the iron-wrought table playing a tuneless melody as the wrap was assembled. Tortilla, lettuce, avocado, parmesan, a couple of drooping slabs of tomato. They angered her, those tomatoes which had lost their lustre, their brightness. What right did they have to give up?
The conversation turned to the usual, the usual, the usual. When would it end? Mid-sentence, his, not hers, Sadie stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the rough patio stones. A surprised ‘where are you going’ drifted after her, the words floating on the hot haze, trying to follow her to the cooling seat.
It was there, as her body sunk into the pebbledash pattern cushion that she ran out of words. She tried to call out an answer to the question still hanging in the air. Like a guppy her lips puckered and pursed, air expelled with the tiniest of breaths, barely audible. Was there a hint of a whimper on the exhalations? Was there a hint of life even?
Sadie tried, again and again, her lips increasingly an inanimate part of her body, lifeless, detached. They moved like her daughter’s play dough, malleable enough, formed into the required shape, yet failed to fulfil their purpose. She tried another formation, a big round ‘O’, the attempt foiled by utter silence. Her eyes copied the shape, a wild, agog expression fastening upon her face; a rigidity trickling down her body.
Was this it? The day that had haunted her since childhood. The day she ran out of words.
Memories play a pivotal role in all our lives, and in one piece of writing, I let my consciousness take a back-seat as I explored my own past. I’m delighted to share ‘I Remember’ as it is featured on Sally Cronin’s inspired ‘Posts from Your Archives’ series. I’ve turned comments off here and look forward to seeing you on Sally’s blog!
Revered for thousands of years, Lavender still holds us enthralled. The fragrant plants are a delight themselves whilst its distilled essential oils have been used for millenniums for aromatherapy, perfume, herbal medicines, culinary herbs.
It was with excitement and joy I found myself at Jersey Lavender within a couple of hours of landing on this jewel of an island of Jersey. Established in 1983, the lavender farm boosts 9 acres with 55,000 lavender plants of six varieties.
As if in a trance I wandered amongst this haven, my palms gently sweeping across the flowers, inhaling the heavenly scent. I found myself closing my eyes … my emotions filled, a dream realised on this first day of my anniversary break.
Annika Perry 