Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

It feels like this came round very fast - but here we are again at FFF! This is the day of the month when you are invited to join in my meme of posting an image which you have taken and telling us about it in whatever inventive manner you wish... ideally it would be fiction, but it can be poetry, straight history, or anecdotal... All I ask is that you hyperlink your own post into the comments on this one (see the FFF page above for how to do this), and that you reciprocate with a hyperlink back to my blog from your own story - and display the 'badge'. Most of all, HAVE FUN!

It lay among the mussel shells all on its own. 

The shells, detritus from multiple pounding first from hungry gulls, then the footfall of passing walkers, resembled delft china. Dashed to smithereens. 

The fork, unexplained. Stained by seaweed. Dropped from a passing yacht, perhaps? Left from a fancy picnic? Definitely found by those very same hungry gulls, and dropped from a height in the hope of breaking it open like the endless mussels before and after it.

Now lying randomly abandoned and glinting in the hazy Scottish light. Silent about its story. Leaving me to make a meal of words from the finding of it there, on the dining table of the feathered ones...

©Yamini Ali MacLean 2020

Final Friday Fiction

It's the last one for 2019.

Boy, that was a quick year. Anyway...

One day recently I was looking through some websites and spotted this little fellow...

My heart went out to him. 

"Hello, Clarke, how'd ya be?"

Oh my, on me, I'm all alone, said he, 

and I feel I have no direction for my wheels or purpose to my seat. 

What is to become of such a deadbeat???

On hearing this cry, I called back and said, 

"But Clarke, dear one, you take my heart. 

I am in need, you see, of a 'horse and cart'. 

Not for real, you know, but the equivalent kind; 

a utility to carry  my load - would you mind?"

No! No! cried Clarke, not at all, at all! 

Order me now, please do, give my makers a call!!!

Which I did, it was easy and - so quick - Clarke was here. 

Wrapped in a box that was YAM-proof, I fear! 

Pen-knife and scissors, nearly a hammer required... 

but eventually, I was in and Clarke I admired. 

He slotted together, just like his image, 

and I was sitting upon him before dad had said 'cabbage'. 

Clarke, you see, was my Christmas present from father, 

to aid me and help, as round the house I did gather 

all the washing and dishes and rubbish and such - 

yes, Clarke was my helpmeet, my rest, and so much... 

so fast he became my beloved, my rolling-stock stool, 

and forever I'll love him, he's the perfect tool. 

Assistant so strong, so worthy and fine - 

oh, yes indeed, I'm proud Clarke is mine!!!

(© Yamini Ali MacLean 2019)

Menondrum - yes, but?

Our pals at LLB are doing their fifth annual Halloween posts and comments donations for shelters blog hop... The charities I donate to are mostly national - but there is one local one called Daisy's Den; they run a little thrift shop and use all the profits to help out local dogs whose owners are in strife or have had to let them go for some reason.
I love that shop and visit it regularly. There is always something to buy and I know my pennies are going to a great local cause!

Now, for a bit of fun.

CLICK HERE to go see more 'tricks'

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

Neneth scanned the wall, absorbed in her reflection.

“I am but a shadow of my former self,” thought she, “twice as ripe as rotten apples, and doubly sour: rougher than the rain-soaked hay and only half as sweet.”

A breeze shimmered through her, causing her to wisp. “Then, too, I am as the willow, all at the mercy of the air. That air which seems as nothing yet is everything. With no air, how could objects suspend themselves, bend themselves, rend themselves? With no air, how could I be?”

The sun shone, enabling her reflection, confirming her existence.

“Without the sun, what life would there be?” she pondered. “Without the sun, nothing would be. Including me. It is only with the light, its precious gift, that I can know I am.”

Neneth turned and admired the new shape she made. The breeze puffed once more and again she shifted. She allowed herself to go with the breeze.

“I am but a shadow of my former self. I am but shadow.”

© Yamini Ali MacLean 2019

First published on Medium

☼☼☼☼☼

Want to wax lyrical?
See how, on the FFF page above.

Menolyrical - Final Friday Fiction

From “The Sunlight Plane” by Damini Kane. (Sadly only available to US and Indian readers currently – obtained my copy through ‘connexions.’ ;~>)

 8 – be specific

12 – unspeakably

16 – in fact

CORE ISSUE

Paul sat watching the boss stab at the list he had on the desk before him.

‘Yah gotta be specific, mate. Y’know? Don’t waffle, use bullet points, get to the core issue, fast and slick. Y’know?’

Paul blinked and tipped his head in a somewhat non-committal way, hoping it would be taken as acknowledgement and the boss would just move along. It irked him, the use of “y’know” at the end of almost every sentence. The over-familiarity of “mate”, too. Whatever happened to the correct language? Writing customer follow-up reports for thirty-five years, Paul was finding it a challenge to deal with these young bully boys who leapfrogged him for management now. First, there had been Rocky (yes, really), then Will and now Ronno. Not Ronald, or Ronny, or just plain Ron.

Holding back a sigh, Paul said, ‘I rather thought the situation required a little more than bullet points, Ronno. The group needs to know the background to the loss of this customer; otherwise, there will be a misunderstanding as to the “core issue”.” He added stress to the last two words.

After all, it was Ronno himself who had unspeakably insulted Dilip Ranjarathekkar. How could he have even have thought it proper to bring up the subject of World Cup Cricket when they were about to close on a deal for sportswear? The very day after Australia had trounced Sri Lanka.

In fact, the “core issue” was a young Australian boss who thought himself a comedian. That was the one and only bullet point required.

Okay. So be it.

(262 words)

© Yamini Ali MacLean 2019

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

The end of May (no, that was not a political statement)... it means that we are at FFF

day again already!!! Do please leave a link to your offerings in the comments as am still setting this up from the YAMroid and linkythingamijiggery won't play ball.

PLEASE, FOLKS, LINK DIRECTLY TO YOUR FFF POST AND NOT TO YOUR BLOG GENERALLY, SO THAT ANYONE COMING LATE WILL STILL FIND YOUR STORY/POEM/MEMOIR. Thank you kindly.

From “Sathyodaya - Truth Awakening” by Sri Walpola Rahula.

8 - faraway places

12 - the offering

16 - I wish

WANDER AND WONDER

It was an interesting talk. Bella often dreamed of faraway places and since childhood felt she was destined to travel. At the grand old age of sixty, she was yet to get her feet further than the coastline of her home country. How had that happened, she wondered?

There had been the final school year jamboree trip to the Northern Tips when she was eighteen summers. That had been a revelation, for her native town was on the Flats of the Southern Continent. Nothing higher than a cherhog’s tail. Up there, climbing brought an exhilaration she had never felt before. She never forgot that feeling and all other travel experiences were measured against it.

Other high points in her memory were the visit to Overyon where the suns joined faces in their biennial conjunction, the journey of Lingerin with their headman and the two-month long Walk of Worthiness, undertaken in the foothills of Saykriohm.

Now here was the offering of a trip of a lifetime. The Speaker told the crowd of the chance to ride on the waters and drift over the far edge. He promised that the carrier would not fall into the sky beyond, but instead, would take them to another land, filled with a chance to wander and wonder with no fences or restrictions. There was room to swing the arms and stretch the legs with no fear of encroaching upon another’s boundary. It would be possible to lie down at full length and arms stretched and never know another was nearby.

Could there truly be such a place, where air could be breathed that had not been breathed before? “Oh, I wish and pray that this is true!” Bella whispered. Almost unbidden by her mind, her arm sprang up in response to the request for volunteers to take the journey.

Amazingly, there were only eight others. They were gathered together in the ante-room to meet The Speaker. In his presence there was a sensation of lightness and joy. No doubts came from Bella or her fellow volunteers; they were in awe of this person. He looked into each of their faces and each felt they were alone and yet were one. They all knew in that moment that the land to which they would wander would indeed be filled with wonder.

(385 words)

© Yamini Ali MacLean 2019

Menolyrical - Final Friday Fiction

This month, I’ve taken the prompt words from a true classic, “War and Peace”, by Leo Tolstoy. One of my all-time favourite books. On this occasion, I used the version found at PlanetPDF.

 8 – complexion

12 – manner

16 – her eyes

Hot, hotter, hottest.

She drops the towel by the radiator and turns the taps. Looking into the mirror while she waits for the water to warm through, her eyes assess the vision. She notes that her complexion has suffered somewhat from the wind exposure of the walk. She washes her face first in the basin with cold water, as is her manner, then turns to enter the shower.

Grasping the nozzle from its rest, she runs it all over her body (below the neck), testing the temperature first on her toes. Once she is thoroughly wet, she replaces it in the rest and soaps up. As always, this is the point where she feels the chill and wants the water hotter. The taps are adjusted until the water runs more to her liking. The soap is rubbed and then removed. Taking the nozzle from the rest once more, it is run again over the whole of her body (below the neck) to ensure the rinse is complete.

Then the taps are further adjusted. The water runs still warmer.

It is exquisite, that pin-pricking sensation of the hot water upon her skin. Down her flanks, across her shoulders, in the small of her back, between her legs. The nozzle is settled back to the rest, and she turns and shifts under the muscle-ironing needles of water, turned up just another notch in heat.

For a few moments more she revels in the steam-filled cubicle. Eventually, she sighs and turns it all off. Pulling open the door she steps onto the mat and reaches for the towel. Oh, the luxury of hot water! Not just hot. The hottest of hot.

Not on her face though. Never the face. That, after all, is her hottest asset.

(293 words)

© Yamini Ali MacLean 2019

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

A new 'badge' for this year's challenge posts. I am also going to give you something different each month this year, rather than a serial (Hindertwig did take on a life of its own, didn't it?!)

This month, in response to a query, I suggested that one could search Google Books (or any other online equivalent) for a page 87. As an example, I simply typed in "War and Peace page 87" and got a very unexpected and (one couldn't help think) pertinent return...

American War & Peace Cycles; 1686 to Present by Dennis J Foley. (I kid you not.)
 8 - Treaty
12 - Surrender
16 - Civil

There it was, every brick representing a drop of blood, of sweat, or a tear. The treaty had failed and it was deemed ‘the solution’. It was considered that there were no other options.

What was it about these leaders that they could see nothing but a total surrender of rights by the Opposition as the way forward? Surely they had not forgotten what it was to be civil towards others? Or perhaps they had. So set in their views, so determined that the Opposition was an enemy, they could not see the potential for friendship, for growth, for exchange and empowerment.  

Yes, that might mean surrendering something on our side, but what was wrong with that? Compromise is what lays the path to better things. There may be loss, but there is more gain.

Yet. There it was, with its bricks of blood and sweat and tears. The blood of those who ripped their skin on them (never give up trying), the sweat of those who layered them up (it pays, so what?), the tears of those divided by its presence.

Never mind though. There’s always the ocean…

(188 words)

© YAM 2019

Menolyrical - Final Friday Fiction

It's FFF time again folks! If you are wondering what it's about, check out the Rulez page for details.  There have been some wonderfully creative and varied responses so far this year. CLICK HERE to see the previous three instalments of the Hindertwig tales. You can also look at the links to others who participated and see how they got inspired. Go on, have a go; just let the words or phrases which jump out of the lines on page 87 lead your mind around its secret corners!!!

The book taken by myself this month is Alexander McCall Smith's 'The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine'

    8.    As an ally

12.   Something confidential

16.   Edge to his voice

IN HINDERTWIG ONCE

For several more days, Hill Bert and Low Sooz continued as they had always done, grazing with the secondary flick of the herd. By virtue of Hill Bert’s being fourth, they had occasionally loped with the lead flick, which made them cuspers. Not really of one flick or the other. It was seen as an advantageous position, having a level of authority without too much responsibility. As Low Sooz was ninth, they had to stand a little betwixt and between. For him to reach first would be trying enough, but they also had to work on raising her through the ranks to second, and that could well be trickier.

It essentially meant that despite being her permanent, Hill Bert would have to act as an ally to Low Sooz. It might even mean that they would have to consider mating separately in the next routh.  When he had spoken to her of ‘eight’ ahead of them, he had not been including himself. Instead, he had been placing Vidge’s first buck son in the mix, which was custom at such times.  Whilst in the general running of the herd he was fourth, in terms of their moving to leadership, Hill Bert had to consider himself as equal ninth to his permanent.

“Soozma,” he murmured the endearment when they were separate from others, “I have something confidential I need to discuss. Will you walk with me to the falls?”

Low Sooz just turned and headed that way as affirmation.

They found a soft mound of froth moss, dappled by the shadows of the Shylet tree, the leaves breaking the sunlight into quick hard sherds and twinkles. As they settled upon it, Hill Bert could feel his blood rushing. He did not want to do this, but there was a long game to be played.

“Soozma dearest, we must now set firm plans for our rise. Vidge will leave freely, so our focus must be on the remaining six.” He could hear an edge to his voice, brought on by the stress of this new step. “It would not go well if we were seen working as one. With the upcoming routh, we must seek different mates.” Low Sooz gave the softest of gasps but also nodded. He loved her still more.

“I believe it will go best if I concentrate on Kern Tup and Meenlah. Kern is older than Vidge, and I sense he is growing weary of holding position. Meenlah was Vidge’s permanent until last year; this year I intend to make her mine, thus becoming third.” He paused for breath and to check Low Sooz. She took up the plot.

“Should I make a play for Vidge’s attention? Bypass the others and become second by direct action?”

Hill Bert was slightly aghast. He had been thinking several moves, but Low Sooz had seen a clear path. It could be risky but would have them positioned in this year itself.

(497 words) © Yamini Ali MacLean 2018

get the InLinkz code

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

From 'Ideas and Opinions', Albert Einstein
8.  its director
12.  although
15.  constant interaction
IN HINDERTWIG ONCE **
Resting beneath their home tree, the dark having fallen, Hill Bert and Low Sooz chewed the cud of the froth moss. They had mated in the first year of Hill Bert's routh. Low Sooz was an entire year older and first-calved already, but they were well-matched. She had accepted him as her permanent. For five years they had produced fine calves and cemented their worth to the herd.
"Do you believe Vidge? That he wants you to become the director?"
Hill Bert snorted. "'Director'?" He paused and considered the word. "Although, that may be a better description than 'leader'. It would be fair to say keeping a herd of Twiglets in order is more about pointing a direction than having them follow. Vidge always stands behind, bellowing at us all."
Low Sooz sniggered. "Yes, but do you believe him? It seems designed to unsettle the herd, favouring us over the second to ninth."
"It does. Yet I also sense the change which Vidge wishes for our herd. He has smelled the flames of the cannibals. He knew what we would find. It is dangerous knowledge which we must safeguard. Think about the eight before us. The top job requires a talent for constant interaction. Do any of that eight strike you as being communicative? Of having the commitment to the herd over and above their own wishes? This is what Vidge needs of us. We are not shy. We are not self-centred. We know that we are We, only because of our fellow Twiglets." he saw Low Sooz watching him. Her large, oval eyes were luminous, even in the dim light of nighttime Hindertwig.
"No. Though, it may be necessary for us to communicate with them, as we work our way. They shall need to be … pointed… in directions which might be better for them. As Vidge has done with us today."
Hill Bert pondered this a moment. "True, but then, why does our illustrious elder not already attend to this?"
"It could be that he must not be seen to be favouring. Rather, it must look as if we are climbing."
"This could indeed be the case, my love! I also see why Vidge named you as second, for your insight and guidance to me are strong."  He paused as the implications of how life was about to change for them hit home. An involuntary shudder in his limbs and a sigh from the depths of his being, caused his mate to ask what was wrong.
"Nothing more than the facing of destiny, dear one. Let us sleep now."
(405 words)
©Yamini Ali MacLean 2018
** Well, it seems that Hindertwig is definitely turning into a serial - it even got a title! Here are the links to the first two 'episodes', but from today, there will be a separate label for it, for ease of following.
PART ONE
PART TWO

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

Book; JOHNATHON LIVINGSTON SEAGULL (Richard Bach)

8; TERRIBLY SORRY

12; LIMITATIONS

16; SAID DRYLY

Continuing the tales of Hindertwig. To see the first, click here.

Hill Bert and Low Sooz slowed their pace as they came back into the village. They had not shared a word between them since leaving that awful scene of the murdered Hindertwiglet and the two-legger flesh eaters feasting upon it. Hill Bert was trembling inside at the thought of telling Vidge.

He didn’t have too long to think about it though. The whispers of the undergrowth had announced their arrival, so Vidge was waiting for them at the Centree. The leader’s expression asked the question.

‘Vidge, Sah,’ began Hill Bert, using the deferential title, ‘we are terribly sorry to report that there is truth to the tales. We saw with our own eyes creatures who walked on their hind legs only and used their forelimbs to act heinously. Sah, they had murdered a Hindertwiglet and placed it over that which we believe to be ‘fire’, and it turned the flesh molten. Those beasts tore at it and gnawed upon it and the bones. The smell was sickening beyond words, the sight one that can now never be unseen.’

‘Next you’ll be telling me you will suffer nightmares and day horrors,’ Vidge said dryly. Hill Bert was taken aback and heard Low Sooz gasp at this harshness from their revered leader. Vidge softened his tone. ‘This was not meant to hurt you. It is just that you must do your best to leave that image where it lies and not carry it with you. This is the way of the forest.’

Low Sooz spoke up now. ‘Vidge, Sah, something in your voice says to me that you knew exactly what we would find; that it was no myth. Am I right?’

There was a long pause. ‘Follow me to the stream. We must discuss this out of the hearing of others.’ Vidge turned and led the way. Once they had refreshed themselves, he took them along to the ridge and they settled down to look over the treetops to the far perimeter of the forest. Vidge spoke again. ‘Twiglets, please know that this task I set you is because you are to become leaders when I am gone. It is not for some time yet, so rest easy! However Hill Bert, you currently are fourth, but your heart and thinking are much wider and stronger than either of Rooper or Pal Sun. Low Sooz, you are ninth, but your loyalty and trustworthiness shine strong. As first and second, you would lead Hindertwig in meaningful ways. To do this, you must overcome your current limitations. You must start to challenge Rooper and Pal Sun. I love them dearly, but they have not the spirit of true leadership. This challenge was not meant to scare you, but to strengthen you in the knowledge of the greater world. One can only protect others when all the facts are yours.’

Hill Bert and Low Sooz, astounded, bowed their heads in acknowledgement of the honour bestowed upon them.

(492 words © Yamini Ali MacLean 2018)

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

Welcome! Hope a few of you at least have given the fiction prompt a go... here's mine; and if you did attempt it, link up with the blog hop. It will remain open for seven days.

having only each other, cannibals and fire, sounded like a horrible idea.

From “An Angel Named Dog”, by Melody Hewson.

Hill Bert and Low Sooz wandered along the path which they had started out on some hours ago. Or maybe it was days. They weren’t sure because the canopy of the trees was so dense it seemed like permanent night.

When Vidge had told them to go check out whether there really were cannibals and fire to be found in the depths of the forest, they had thought it sounded like a horrible idea. However, having only each other to fight against the whole council, they had lost that argument and here they were. Deep in it.

Their feet were agile on the soft forest floor, which was carpeted with pine needles and moss and ferns. With eyes well-adapted to the low light of Hindertwig, they were alert to anything which might point to fleshmunchers or look like something which might be called fire. Having no idea what fire actually was, they really didn’t have any idea what it would look like. Vidge had only told them they would know when they saw it. It was something which had been in Hindertwig once, far behind time, and because of that there would be memory which would awaken, when it was seen.

Before anything their eyes picked up, though, came a smell. Not like anything they had smelled before. Instinctively they followed their noses. It was but moments before they heard noise. Voices? Loud and harsh to their ears. As they clambered over a pile of fallen tree, Hill Bert and Low Sooz became aware that the air had brightened as well as become more smelly.

Peering over the top of the pile, they both recoiled at first; the onslaught of light, noise and odour was overwhelming and they both gagged from it. Snuggling close, they peeked again.

That must be it. Fire. Fallen trees were glowing with orange and yellow and white and green and blue and it danced and hissed and sparked and rose high above the gathering. They were in awe of it. More frightening, though, were the figures which moved around the crazy mound of light. They walked on their hind legs, they shouted, and they were eating. Hill Bert and Low Sooz now felt truly sick. Those monsters were eating a Hindertwiglet, one of their own. The could see the legs and the ears and nose. That dear thing was stuck through from throat to clinch and suspended above the fire. It sizzled and dripped and the monsters tore off that damaged flesh and gnawed hungrily at it.

Were these the cannibals then? Those who eat the flesh of other living beings? Did they not understand that they ate of themselves, even if in different form?

Oh the shock, the horror. Hill Bert and Low Sooz crept silently backwards then broke into a gallop back to the homebase. They had to report to Vidge that cannibals and fire did indeed exist, but that they were best left in myth…

(493 words)  © Yamini Ali MacLean 2017

Final Friday Fiction

There once was a bear who travelled. Not just from room to room or even street to street. Not only from town to town, but also from country to country. This adventurous bear was able to communicate wherever he went because he spoke the universal language. Love.

Sometimes, to travel, the adventurous bear had to be stuffed into places dark and cramped. It's not that he didn't have a passport to cross the borders with - he did. It was that sometimes it was the only means of transport. His beloved hyooman couldn't always travel with him you see, but other hyoomans wanted his company. So the adventurous bear would be wrapped in paper and his clothes beside him and into a box he would go.

One day, he got no warning, none at all. His hyooman picked him up and wrapped him and he knew that soon he'd be in the dark. Quite literally. This time was different though. This time there were other stuffies in beside him.

Loother was large but a proper gentlemouse who spent the entire trip apologising to his fellow travellers in case he was crushing them. Soxee just giggled and squeaked and wriggled, saying she was getting tickled. 'How that could be is quite beyond understanding', thought the adventurous bear, 'because we are all wrapped like Ancient Egyptians in here'. Then there was Stix, who moaned a bit that there was no room in the box to 'cut some moves'. Adventurous bear wasn't at all sure he ever wanted to find out what that meant. The remaining member of this travelling team was the Sadhu. Dressed all in saffron-coloured clothes, this mouse's face appeared to glow with a special light of its own. The adventurous bear had seen it before all the wrapping happened and even now, in this pitch-dark travelling space, he somehow knew which of the lumps beside him was the Sadhu. The glow was not just of light but of energy, it seemed.

The adventurous bear was curious and really wanted to ask questions of the Sadhu, but didn't know quite how to begin and was afraid of seeming foolish.

'Ask your questions', came a voice as that thought went through the adventurous bear's mind. If he had a lid on his one eye, he would have blinked. 'I wondered only at the colour of your clothing and the glow of your face…'

'Is that all?' quipped the Sadhu. Despite being unable to see, the adventurous bear knew somehow that there was a smile on the other's face, that face of radiance. He felt his mind focus only on that voice. 'We who walk the Advaitic path wear yellow to represent the rising sun. We are at the dawn of our understanding of Reality of Spirit and the Nature of Humanity; even as we have yet to complete the path, proximity to the Truth removes fear, instils clarity and engenders purity. How can one not glow with such fortune upon one?'

The adventurous bear pondered both the response and whether he was expected to formulate an answer to the end question. He surprised himself.

'Do you follow the sun, then?' The adventurous bear wondered to himself who had asked that question, surely it wasn't himself!

'We follow Knowledge. All knowledge of the material kind and all knowledge of the mystical kind. When we are able to bring the two together and become The Knowledge ourselves, then we take the orange cloth, representing the setting of the sun. External light is no longer required. We are the Light.'

The adventurous bear fell into silence as his mind ticked over and over these few words which seemed to carry the weight of the world within them. 'I am orange' he thought to himself. Which was true. His furs were orange from the tip of his head right down to his paws.

'Then you must be a very wise bear and one who understands the nature of Love.'

Again, the adventurous bear wanted to blink, for he was sure he had not spoken aloud. It was true, though; he knew only Love. Through all his years he had absorbed all the tears of joy and pain of the hyooman and shared in all the fun and the angst. Through it all, he had remained he, balanced and content. That was all that Love demanded.

Before he could make further enquiry, there was a wrenching sound, a snipping and a clipping and ripping. In no time at all  it seemed, they were being removed from the box and unwrapped and getting hugged and Loved by a hyooman not his own.

'Oh, life - 'tis an adventure!' thought the adventurous bear…

ॐ  © Yamini Ali MacLean 2017

NB - The Adventurous Bear is, of course, none other than Brom of Norway!

...don't ask...

Final Friday Fiction

Two and a half years ago this story got written, prompted by the FFHT lines given by Murphy and Stanley... it was essentially a Christmas story; but the recent trip to the North and seeing all the seals on Loch Fleet, I was reminded of it... perhaps you will be happy to be reminded also..? (Have made some minor edits and added a title.)

Skelbo Selkie

Peering through the glare of the low-slung sun’s light shafts, Bala blinked. Balanced on his sand strand, the tide had risen to almost submerge him. When the tide was out, there was enough room for Bigshanks the Shag and perhaps a couple of his brood as well. Right now, though, it was seal-room only.

Time to find a bigger strand.

Bala flipped over and slid into the dark and chill waters of the firth and headed with the current towards the spit of land over which the sun now hung. It was a lengthy swim, but he made the most of the current, allowing himself to drift with it as much as possible, conserving energy for when he rounded the headland and up into the loch he knew was behind. He’d been round there before, chasing fish. Now, though, he wanted to find a place that was all his own.

The other seals all tended to stay by the open water. The other young ones didn’t want to play with him, due to his twisted flipper. They taunted him and butted him.  Even his mother had left him as soon as the bull came sniffing round. She wanted fitter pups.

As he was musing on these rejections, he hadn’t noticed that he had swum further up the loch than he had ever intended. Here, the water was almost pond-like. 

Bala was brought out of his reverie by a raucous squawking overhead. It was Bigshanks!

“How come you are here?” called Bala.

“I would ask you that!  This is part of my fishing territory.  …So, why are you here?”

Bala stopped and just floated in the water. Bigshanks made a gliding landing on the glassy surface and paddled over to join him.  “Well?”

“To be honest it was just an urge. The strand is too small for me now and no one was really talking to me. I know there are some good fish up here, they taste sweeter somehow…” Bala noted Bigshanks nodding at this point, “and then there was the whispering.”

“Whispering?”

Bala waggled his dud flipper in the air before answering. “That there is magic up here.  That I might be able to get my flipper mended…”  He stopped when he saw a flicker of light in Bigshanks’ eyes. 

“Bala my young friend, there is much of mystery up at Lochend…but I think you should know that it is all just fairy tales and nonsense dispensed by the kilters; you know, those upright, hairless critters on the land, not a feather to wag among the lot of them…tsk, they think gullible things we are. Long years back, one of your ancestors was caught by the helper of the wummin, and that mischief planted all sorts of silly notions about you seals being "men-in-waiting" and that the Wyrd-wummin up the creek can fix up damages and make happiness…”

Bigshanks stopped when he saw Bala blinking. “Wyrd-wummin?”

“Och, Bala, it’s just the farmer’s wife who knows a thing or two about healing.”

“Thanks Shankie, now I know I have to go. Will you come too?”  The bird shook his head and spread his wings. “Sorry young ‘un, you’re on your own for this one.  Be safe…”

The seal watched as his friend took off with long, laborious strokes of the air. It would have been good to have Bigshanks along, but he also understood that, for whatever reason, the bird didn’t think it was worth his time.  Oh well. Turning slowly in the flat, cool water, Bala headed further and further up the narrowing and shallowing loch, towards the place where the hills bowed and curtsied to the water’s edge.

As there came to be more rocks than liquid here, Bala worked his body with clumsy flicking motions to clamber over them.

Okay, I know Mac2 isn't male, or a selkie...
but it's a nice pic, donchya think?

“It’s easier on two legs you know.”

Bala jumped out of his skin.

Literally. 

His seal skin dropped away and he became a white, naked critter, pale and limp on the right foreleg.  No, that couldn’t be right, how could it be a leg? He looked over to where the voice had been.  There sat a plump…something…with brightly coloured skins and a bell attached to the covering on its head.

“Come on then.”

“What are you?!” demanded Bala.

“WHAT I am is an elf. I gather up all the toys for Wyrd-wummin to wrap up and then her hubby gets them out to all the kiddlies in need of fun. Now get a move on!”

“I’m no toy!” yelled Bala.

“Oh is that so? Is it not that you are called Bala?” The seal-boy nodded. “Have you not the Gaedhlig then, to know that the name means ‘toy’? Even more than that, it means ‘ball-toy’… now roll on over this way and we’ll away up the glen to the wummin.”

Bala was shocked. He was frightened. He was shivering and could feel tears pricking his eyes.  Tears? How did he know they were tears? So much he knew and yet didn’t, but somehow he accepted that this was what had to be done if he was to get a better flipper. He stumbled his way over the slippery, sea-grassed rocks and followed the tubby little critter all the way up the creek-side. It seemed to take hours. Then suddenly it was over.

There was the Wyrd-wummin, sitting under a leafless rowan which was decked in full red berry. She beckoned to him. As he drew closer he was riveted by her eyes. Large as moons, as dark as the water he had just left, and lit with all the stars of the night sky.

There were no words. She simply reached over and held the bad flipper… he still thought of it as that. Like the shock of hitting ice, he felt her touch and life flowed into the damaged limb.

Then it all stopped. With horror he realised that the limb was turning to wood.  It crept up his other limbs also and worked its way through him until he could not move. He was not breathing and yet he knew he was still he. The wummin gathered his bundle of sticks to her and turned them in her hands. He was being rolled and twisted and tightened and twined. He blinked.  Or that’s what he thought he did. He was thrown onto a pile of other wooden shapes and felt their presence. Heard their cries.

Along came farmer. A large and white-furred fellow. “Ho ho ho ho! What a haul of toys we have for all the kiddlies this year wummin.  You have done well!”

“SSSKKKARRRRKKKK!!” came another sound, very familiar to Bala.  Bigshanks! Bala shouted and shouted with his thinking but could make no sound. How could it be that Bigshanks was here? There was no time to question it though. For the feathered friend swooped and grabbed Bala from the pile of pining presents, fleeing as fast as possible wth the extra load.

Bigshanks headed back to the pile of blubber and fur on the shoreline. He dropped the ball of sticks onto the mess and made a bit of a crash landing beside it.

Bala felt the water, felt his pelt, felt his sticks reviving and wriggling their way free of their entrapment. As suddenly as he had lost his sealdom, so it was he returned to the water as a seal once more. A complete seal. Four working flippers. 

“Bigshanks! I can swim free and fast – but how did you know?”

The bird was not with him he realised. He turned to where his rescuer had landed. There was the multi-coloured mischief who had lured him in the first place… “I was with you always my friend. I am only in liege to Wyrd-wummin for two months of the year, and this being Christmas eve, I was freed of liegedom but an hour ago. When you said what your plan was I could see there was no changing your mind. It was my wish that you have your own wish met, but I had to satisfy her demands of me. Saving you was always going to be a matter of luck. That was what might be called ‘in the Nick of time…’”

(c) Yamini Ali MacLean 2014

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

HEARTLOCKER

I gaze upon the door before me. There sits the padlock. Thick. Heavy.

Keyless.

Like the heart of the Beloved.

I gaze upon the shackle, binding the padlock to the door.

Attached.

Like the spirit to the body.

I gaze upon the keyhole, deep, dark, inviting.

Calling.

Am I the key?

© Yamini Ali MacLean 2017

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

As the company watched, Rinkyr placed her feet into the slippers. There was an audible murmuration around the hall as it was seen that they fit her exactly. They felt so light on her feet - they felt like new, as never used. The Moderator spoke into the hush.

"I'll keep it short Rinkyr. You either follow in the footsteps of Myyr. Or you don't. Neither path will be easy."

Rinkyr swallowed. She'd heard that when in a difficult decision situation one's mouth would dry and the eye's would seem unable to blink. A part of her brain observed her body and found that this was true. Not that it helped to have this knowledge.

Myyr had been such a huge influence on the Order of Walklings. He had left big shoes to fill. Metaphorically speaking, of course, for clearly the feet of the Master had actually not been so large at all. Or her own had grown... She had definitely grown within her being. Was this the same thing?

Could she follow in his footsteps? Could she walk in his shoes?

There was no imperative. The decision would be entirely her own. The Order would find another by drawing lots should she opt out. She alone was the chosen to slip on the footwear; chosen by Myyr himself. It was the tradition that the most gifted student according to the passing Master would have this right. If that student opted to walk a separate path, then they had to leave the Order. This is why it too would not be an easy path. To take up the slippers would mean adopting all that had been set in place by the Master and adding one's own prints.

Rinkyr turned and looked each and very one of the Order in the eye. All one hundred and seven. She turned to Meru, the Moderator.

"As the hundred and eighth, to follow is the only path."

There. Time to begin again. Fresh life. New shoes.  

Menolyrical - Final Friday Fiction

As I am otherwise occupied this end of month, have scheduled this re-post from last year's October offering. It contains the link to one of me personal favourite recipes. Some of you will remember it. Others who are new or have the menopolyxinaemic trouble will not. Hope you all enjoy it, nevertheless. 

It was a dark and stormy night.......................................................................................... .....................................................................................................................................................................................

Rubbish - it was practically broad daylight. No; not that either.

In these more Northern climes, at the end of October, it's pretty much getting dark by tea time. So it was nearly dark. As it was tea time, I was racing home. A bowl of hot soup and a chunk of home made bread would do just fine after being out in the wild and woolly, early winter weather............... ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Oh okay. It was the suburbs; though they can be wild you know. I was the one who was all woolly, trying to keep the wind away. Halloween is early winter........................................................................
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Tsk...alright then. Late autumn. It was no less bluster and chill for the nomenclature.

As I was saying, I was rushing home for that bowl of soup and thinking how I had prepared it the evening before. It was a HUGE pumpkin to chop up, but the new knife Albert had given me was sharp as shark's gnashers and made the job easier than anticipated. First I cut right through the middle of that monster. The pale grey-green skin (it was a "Queensland Blue") was thick and leathery. The bright orange flesh almost seemed to beam light into the kitchen.

Next I cut the two halves into half. Each of the four pieces again were cut into two - and so on until there were thirty two bits on the bench.

Then I pulled out the special peeler; the kind which you pull down the body of the vegetable to rip the skin from the flesh. Pumpkins are a difficult breed and need that adapted tool. It's a bit like stripping bark from a tree. Not that I've tried that - but you get the drift. The carrots are a less rowdy bunch altogether.

The point is, one has to work for one's pumpkin carrot silk soup! The stock, herbs and spices... they cause no trouble at all.

I pulled out the soup pan and got the heat cranked up. Turning back to the bench, the naked pumpkin flesh made me pause for a moment. It appeared to be weeping. For the briefest moment I thought I heard noises.

Anyway. All got put in the pot, boiled and simmered for due time and then blitzed and then sieved.... oh yeah, it got done good and proper. Now it awaited my arrival to be heated once more, and get dunked with that bread.

Just as I was drawing past the neighbour's place, I heard some unusual noises. There was a kind of rustling and a low rumbling. I stopped by the wall for a moment and the noise stopped. Remembering the peculiar sensation of noise last night, I started to feel colder than the wind was making me. I sneaked a peek round and over the gate. At the bottom of their path, near the door, the kids had put out their jackolanterns. It occurred to me that perhaps I might have attacked the pumpkin through its head and created a lantern myself. Then again, why bother? No kids at my place and I certainly didn't want to be encouraging any unwanted callers seeking sweeties or playing silly sausages.

I moved on.

The noises grew loud. VERY LOUD.

I turned back to look over the gate.........................................................................................................
.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

I could hear them................... "WE ARE THE PUMPs AND YOU KILL OUR KIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WE ARE THE PUMPs AND YOU KILL OUR KIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WE ARE THE PUMPs AND YOU KILL OUR KIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I ran backwards the remaining few yards to home. 

"Alll-BERT! Pour that soup away - NOW!!! It has gone sour. We'll have cheese on toast!"...