Letter from a doll

Excerpt from a short story.

Even through the thick curved lens of her father’s magnifying glass, the tiny ink marks on the stamp-sized letter were hard to read. Written in flowing italic letters, Sam concentrated as she tried to decipher the words.

After a few moments, she became aware of a small, reedy voice in her head, reading the contents of the letter aloud to her as her eyes strained through the glass.

“Dearest Miss Samantha,” it began.

“I realise it has been many years since last we spoke, so please forgive this intrusion. Believe me when I say that I would not be doing so unless I was in the direst of peril.

I am gladdened whenever I recall our days together, my darling. When we spent those long hours lost in our thoughts and hopes; when we danced together in dizzying circles, to collapse and laugh in each other’s arms.

And I understand, my most precious friend: I understand why we had to part. I hold no ill-feeling or regret, beyond the bittersweet taste of memory.

But now, my dearest; now things have taken a dreadful turn. It is father, Miss Samantha. Something has taken hold of him – something terrifying and inexplicable. Mother and I live our days in fear of the monster he has become; there is no escape from his wrath, or from his unspeakable deeds.

I implore you, my love: return to me. Return to the nursery, to the house, to our dreams. I know you can resolve this; you are, and always have been, my hope and inspiration – and now, I realise, my saviour.

Please, Miss Samantha, if you value what once we had. And please hurry, for I fear without your aid, I am lost.

With my utmost, sincerest and undying love,

Jemima.”

 

These Childish Things (opening)

The movement on the pillow woke her. Eyes still glued with sleep, Sam stared at the two small indentations, already disappearing as she watched.

She glanced, alert now, at the foot of the bed. Stiltskin lay there asleep, fur gently rippling as he breathed. Then back at the pillow; to the floor – nothing. She noticed a faint scent of lavender as she started to breathe again, a cloying smell which made her think of Gran.

The bedroom door was cracked open as usual. The yellow light from the landing flowed into the darkness, fading to black as it inched closer to her bed.

Sam touched the pillow. Was it colder than usual? The warm summer nights were giving way to the chill of autumn. It was hard to tell. She sat up, shivering at the icy touch of the metal bedpost through her nightdress. The cat let out a throaty moan, doubtless stalking his way through tiger dreams.

The sound pattered like rain on dry earth. She had to strain to hear it, but it was there. Tiny knocks; something small running on the floorboards. Sam had heard the skittering sounds of mice before, but this was different: more regular, less animal.

Stiltskin had also woken, eyes wide and ears twitching towards every sound. The knocks grew fainter, getting further away and the cat leapt off the bed and ran out the door in a single movement of immediate intent.

Sam listened, trying to hear above the thumping of her pulse. A feline hiss; followed by the soft click of the nursery door. Then, the scratching of claws.

She willed herself out of bed. The distance to the door seemed vast, each step towards it a separate journey. By the time she reached the hall, she was exhausted, shaking.

Stiltskin crouched outside the nursery, pawing at the floor with determined frustration. The cat’s presence calmed her fear a little, and Sam tiptoed beside him, placing her ear against the smooth warmth of the door.

Each tiny sob from inside the room seemed to pierce her, freezing her cry long before it reached her tightening throat.

 

Seaborn (excerpt)

He welcomed the night as he turned the boat towards the fishing grounds. The darkness engulfed him; helped him to forget the things which anchored him to the bitter ground of the day.

The night was clear, the wind breathless. The surface of the ocean moved with the swell of the tide, like the back of a sleeping animal. Moonlight sprayed across it, dappling it into a colourless patchwork.

The island was to his left as he approached it: a sharp rocky growth erupting through the water. A rough beach, barely wider than the boat, spread out at one end, its wet shingle glistening in the pale light. Normally deserted, he spotted movement.

Her cry ripped at his insides. She was crouched over a dark form on the beach, swaying slowly as she moaned. Slowing the boat, he watched.

Her body was slick and lithe, her dark hair sticking to the flexing curve of her spine. Arms outstretched, she flung herself in front of the shape. Her lament started as a guttural lowness in her throat, then reached a shrill climax that made him shiver. A brief squall nudged the boat gently, enough to cause the bell to ring.

The sound unfolded her. Her movements were fluid; each seemed to emphasise the shape of her. The round swell of her hips as she stood; the smooth slope of her shoulders as she turned towards him; the gentle undulation of her belly as she covered her mound with slender fingers.

She was silent now, as she stood and stared at him. Her expression shifted slowly from one of sadness to recognition, her mouth twisting into the same smile he had seen the night before. Slowly, she stepped towards the shore, spreading her arms in front of her. He could not look away; his eyes were flooded by her naked beauty. Her small breasts blossomed before his gaze, which fell to her hairless mound as she walked towards him. Transfixed, he stared back at her face, watching as her lips parted.

He could feel the warmth from within him once more. The boat was near the shallows. As she began to sing to him – a song played on his sinew and blood – he turned the boat towards the beach and landed it.

The shape behind her was clear now. The pup was dead, swollen by decay. Its face was torn away, the skin from its mouth ripped back in a snarl as if the animal had met its death with angry defiance. One eye socket was empty, gouged out and ragged; the remaining eye was milky and dull, the colour of thin broth.

She came towards the boat and laid one hand on its side, looking up at him. Then, taking slow backward steps, she edged further inshore, away from the corpse and towards a rough patch of stubble-like grass amongst the rocks.

There was no magic at work; no mystic pull on him. His intent was his own as his boots crunched down onto the pebbles and he followed her. Not even the stench of the rotting creature lowered his desire for her.

Her touch was light: warm and smooth like the stones Callum played with. As her hand flitted against his face, he placed his own upon her shoulders. Her song dropped to a low sighing, coaxing the heat from within him to the surface. Her hair was wet and heavy beneath his hands as he pulled her towards him, her body flexing into his. Her lips parted once more and their mouths locked; her taste was salty and bitter as his tongue twined with hers.

The grass was wet beneath him. Dampness soaked through his trousers as he loosened his belt and spread her with his knees. She made a small gasping sound as he entered her, plunging into her as his face sunk into the smooth hollow of her neck.

Their rhythm matched the tide; her nails scraped sharp gashes across his back as they ebbed and flowed around each other.

He stared into the soulless eye of the pup as he crashed inside her.

 

Meet Balfour Bryce-MacAlpin Esq.

As I knocked out my pipe on the teetering pile of congratulatory telegrams, Nellie shuffled in with the morning papers and laid them on the table.

She avoided my stare as usual, no doubt embarrassed at last night’s escapades. The old girl was surprisingly supple for her age and I ruminated on her prowess as she cleared up the breakfast tray and backed away through the drawing room door.

I stretched out my legs, crossed my feet and placed them on the stool, careful not to mark the zebra hide with my boots. The left one was slightly scuffed and I made a mental note to get them polished by one of those dreadful urchins who hover around the streets behind the station.

Predictably, most of the dailies led with the story of the foiled assassination attempt. The Illustrated Capital News reported it best, in my opinion, describing me as a ‘mysterious and dashing figure whose rapier-like speed and courage should be held up like beacons of inspiration all across the Empire’.

Quite so.

They did however get one trifling detail wrong. My ‘gentlemanly swagger and air of invincibility’ was not, as they surmised, a ‘product of his no-doubt impeccable breeding and education’, but the result of the half-dozen mugfuls of gin I’d imbibed in the city’s vermin-infested drinking holes a few hours earlier.

Had I not been several sheets to the wind, I doubt I would have inadvertantly stumbled into that dastardly fellow as he made a desperate lunge for the Crown Princess. As fortune would have it however, I knocked the blaggard – and his pistol – to the cobbled streets, where he was immediately set upon and apprehended by the constabulary.

As some of those uniformed gentlemen are particularly keen to have words with me, I cocked a wink to the lady and retreated into the darkness, eventually finding my way back to my Queen Street apartment.

Rubbing my whiskers as I sipped at the whisky Nellie had left, I turned to the racing pages and considered how best to recover some of my gambling losses without resorting to hawking what was left of the family silver.

 

Seaborn – opening

He only felt at home on the sea. Its broad curves seduced him; they dragged him deep inside and whispered adulterous secrets to him.

He tasted it on cracked lips, where it stung like a promise waiting to be broken. Felt its sighs and moans beneath him, tiding between ecstasy and emptiness. Its scent aroused him, stirred something within him and lurched at his stomach.

Greyness smirred the horizon with a thin, watery blending of sea and sky. He pulled his collar closer about his neck. The boat bucked on the ocean’s back, churning foamy spray which licked at the wooden hull. The night was nearly gone: his thoughts resurfaced and he began hauling up the net.

 

Currently writing…(April 2010)

I’m currently putting the finishing touches on a short story (5,000 words) with the Scottish legend of the selkie (a seal which can transform into a human) as its premise. It’s a psychological horror-tinged piece, and I’ll be releasing it out into the wild within the next few days.

Next, I’m going to pursue one (or more) of the following:

• another short piece based on the recent news story in the US of a cat in a care home for the elderly which seemed to sense when people were about to die
• world-planning for an epic fantasy I’ve always wanted to write, based on themes, characters and symbolism of the Tarot
• commencing a novel (which I have plotted parts of) exploring the premise of angels on earth (the mood I’m going for with this is a psychological thriller with obvious supernatural tones)


Elementary, ya radge

• and, for something completely different, a recent e-mail based conversation inspired me to try an episodic pastiche of Conan Doyle-style tales of derring-do and intrigue in the days of the Empire. I think I may set this in Edinburgh, and have the main character as a complete misanthropist with inappropriate views and opinions. So think Sherlock Holmes written by Irvine Welsh…

I may end up working on some, all or none of these – I’ll let you know which ones make it past those crucial first couple of hundred words…

 

Running Bare flash fiction competition winner

The following won first prize on writelink.co.uk’s March 2010 flash fiction competition.

The challenge was to write a piece of 250 words or less with the premise of the protagonist finding themselves naked, and what happens to them immediately thereafter.

Whilst I admit I was inspired a little by The Wicker Man, I think this was successful due to the fact most of the other entrants chose a humourous approach.

I was of course delighted to win; I was equally pleased with the judges’ feedback, which praised the imagery used and the manner of exposition.

Here’s the piece:

The Wild Hunt

Wet blades of grass lapped him into consciousness. Newly-dawned light was chasing the last of the mist from the valley. Standing, he rubbed the lump on the back of his head with one hand whilst instinctively trying to cover his nakedness with the other.

A bird screamed and flew into the morning, a black dart piercing the taut canvas of the sky. He shuddered, wiping the dew from his thighs. Fading fingers of mist grabbed at his ankles; a cold breeze clawed at the scars on his back.

Red shards of memory stabbed his mind: their paint-streaked faces; the firelight cavorting in their eyes; the terrible keening of their song. Then, the shock of the silence.

Now: a rush of air, a sharp sting on his shoulder; a pebble landing at his feet. He spun round and saw the child staring at him, a thin smile on her face. She pocketed her mobile in her filthy jeans and put a finger to her lips. He wanted to speak, to scream, but his words died somewhere in the back of his throat.

She lifted the bone horn to her mouth and raised an eyebrow, still smiling. A moment passed between them, a passionate clash of pity and despair. Then, the horn called out in a demanding voice. The howls – animal and human – answered. The girl’s smile faded.

He started to run.