The Witchery

barbedwire

I DWELL in the company of witches, none of whom I recognise. All robed in black and taking part in rituals, we are controlled by a matriarchal figure we cannot see but who we know is there. I want out but leaving is not an option. When I do something that is against Her, I am mind-controlled into doing her bidding. I am aware of yet another presence that I cannot identify …

After a time, we find ourselves in a massive black tent, anxious to find out of we are free of Her. We look skyward only to see long blade-like nails tear through the tent lining. She is coming for us. I fight to maintain my free will yet again but it is even harder than before. When She finally shows herself, she too is dressed entirely in black with a head-dress resembling that of the White Witch of Narnia. Tiny barbed objects shoot at my fingers, embedding themselves into the very tips. Even as I try to will them out from under my flesh, they expand, so that when they break the surface, it is worse than if I had left them alone. Giving in would be so much easier; the more I fight Her, the greater the pain …

Fast forward and I stand at a hospital reception desk. A man, whose presence I recognise from the witches’ coven, comes in asking for someone. I look at him blankly until, without me needing to say anything, he realises that he is himself the man he is looking for. Then, just before we get the opportunity to combine our efforts, both he and I are dragged away by orderlies …

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes

 

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The Dalmatian, the Cactus and the Wormery

cactus

ALEX tells me he had a dream in which he has a dog. A Dalmatian to be precise. Only, it leaves him because he didn’t feed it properly.

“Jeez, that sucks,” I say. “If a dog leaves you, you really have to be doing something wrong.”

Nose in the air, bags packed, the Dalmatian says to Alex “I’m leaving. I’m not staying here a minute longer.” Then off he goes, nose down, tail down, into the sunset.

In theatrical fashion, I nearly cry. I say to Alex “Please, I beg you. Don’t tell me any more. This is just too sad.”

The next thing he knows, the Dalmatian is standing on a branch next to his wee suitcase.

Eyes tight shut, I wail “Nooooooooo.”

My mind darts back to the night before when we realised that we had somehow managed to murder a mere cactus through unwitting neglect? After congratulating ourselves on how lovely it looked and how much it had grown? Why hadn’t we thought to look underneath?

I say as much. “Thank God we don’t have kids.”

“And then …”

“No, don’t tell me any more.”

My existential crisis of 2012 … Only weeks after being congratulated by my gardening tutor on how considerate a mother I was to the contents of the wormery I had lovingly set up on my balcony to compost my food waste, I somehow managed to wipe them all out.

Eyes tight shut, I wail again “Nooooooooo.”

“In the end he came back.”

“Aaawww.” Relief.

“With a bunch of other dogs …”

“Aaaaaaawwwwwww.”

“And moved back in.”

“Aaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwww, that’s so sweet.”

“And gave me a big hug.”

“Really? Well, why couldn’t you have just said that in the first place?”

 

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes

Analyse that

pelican

I STOOD in a house, the appearance of which I cannot remember. I stepped outside to look for something. It was dark and when I turned to go back inside, I couldn’t see a thing. I blinked and squinted in an attempt to see at least the outlines in front of me. That’s when I saw a man standing against a lit background, a streetlight perhaps, watching me.

In panic I fled. He came after me. Next thing I knew, it was daylight and I was airborne in a cloudless sky, chased by an enormous pelican. This went on for some time, until at last I thought I had outrun (or outflown) it.

Just as I gained what I thought to be a safe distance, I turned to see the outstretched wings of yet another massive pelican close in on me. Scooping me up with both its wings, it stopped me from falling to the ground. I felt an infusion of energy, that rose from my backside and up through my solar plexus.

My last sight of the pelicans was one of them turning back into a man …

 

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2017

Grey Matter

IN THE thick of a mass murder investigation, a home specialising in the care of Alzheimers patients exudes a distinct aura of smoke and mirrors that somehow manages to escape the notice of the police. Exactly how many secrets is it trying to hide?
Full story here.

Grey Matter is an experimental short story from M K MacInnes, only available on Scribd for now due to formatting constraints and best downloaded as a PDF on a PC. Click pic for direct link to Scribd – free to download and you don’t have to be a Scribd member to view it.

Note:

1. This is a work of pure fiction that should not be confused with real fake news.

2. Grey Matter is a WORK IN PROGRESS. Constructive feedback ever so welcome.

3. I have published it to Scribd, as having a fixed format, I have no control over how it looks in other platforms such as Amazon.

 

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2017

 

Le Piroquet

parrot

THE SEARING Marseilles heat was a welcome change from the clinging smell of autumnal mildew that permeated Paris of an evening. It was morning, dawn but a distant memory for the flora and the fauna encircling my bedroom window. The sun already seemed high and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. I had just opened the wooden shutter, invigorated by a subtle awareness of the cool air hugging the ground and the soft caress of sun on my face. Better than I had ever imagined life in the South of France to be, the moment could not be more perfect. I felt connected, at one with the whole of Creation.

Sitting on the branch of an orange tree about five feet from me was a beautiful winged creature, a glorious technicolour parrot straight from the pages of Treasure Island.

“Wow, you’re gorgeous!”, I exclaimed.

He blinked at me, as if to say “Yes, I know.”

I blinked too, in disbelief that such an audience had presented itself.

The parrot studied me. I studied back. Who was the more curious, me or him? I looked about to see if there was another soul around. Nope. Just me and the bird.

It flicked its head as if it had a nervous twitch. Just as it occurred to me that he wanted to scratch, he lifted his right claw and did the deed. He squawked in a self-satisfied manner and tilted his head the other way.

I tilted mine and squawked back.

It occurred to me that I should try to teach it to say something funny. How did one say “Who’s a pretty boy, then” or “Don’t get your knickers in a twist” in French? No, that would be beneath me and insult the parrot.

As if he knew what I was thinking, he cocked his head, strutted on the spot as if walking on hot coals, then began to whistle. He articulated three crisp clear notes.

I said nothing. I couldn’t whistle to save myself. All attempts by my father to teach me had failed.

He whistled the same three notes yet again. Still I uttered not a sound.

It was only when he whistled the third time that the penny dropped and I attempted to follow suit. My first efforts were in vain, for I blew like a flat tyre.

He repeated the same notes. I tried again. And again. And again. He persisted until I had mastered whistling all the notes in exactly the manner that he had done.
I couldn’t believe I was actually doing it. At long bloody last, I could whistle …

After a short pause, in which he almost seemed to make a little bow of approval, the maestro whistled again. Only this time, there were four notes. The first two were the same as before, but the third was different and the fourth was entirely new.

In the midst of my euphoria, it was not lost on me that the parrot knew exactly what it was doing. Everything about this strange and wonderful experience made me want to pinch myself. I half expected Richard Dreyfuss to come out of nowhere and a massive flying disk to appear above my head. Close Encounters of the Bird Kind … ha ha. I kept my imaginings simple and settled instead on Simon Says.

But Mister Feathered Smarty Pants was not satisfied that I had got the hang of four notes. Oh no, he piled it on and took it up to five. By the time he racked the level of difficulty up to six, my attention span was shot to pieces and I couldn’t handle all the notes.

He paced about like a disgruntled drill sergeant, then looked at me as if to say “Pfft, is that it?”

Mmm, I could smell breakfast. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say “Mais oui.”

In the blink of an eye my Teacher fluttered off into the big blue sky.

FIN

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2015-2017

Red Road

redroad

In the wake of the Grenfell tragedy in London, in which countless people died in the name of so-called austerity, I have given a lot of thought lately to whether I could return to living in a high rise. As for the infamous Red Road Flats, they were demolished to loud cheers a couple of years back.

* * * * * *

Red Road

Tall and gaunt,
Bleak and still,
These edifices of humanity.
As I look out of my cocoon,
I wonder what takes place
Behind these holes called windows.
What misery,
What joy,
What love
Goes on before my very nose.

And as I look out, I feel
That someone on the other side
Is sharing in my reverie.
Am I too being pondered?
Is someone out there watching me?

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 1986-2017

Reality Check 2017

reality check graphic

A YEAR and a half ago, having got Close Call: Short and Bittersweet under my belt and deciding that becoming the next J K Rowling was a tad ambitious, my master plan was to develop my ‘brand’ and complete all the projects I had already started … while holding down two day jobs …

It still hasn’t quite gone according to plan. I have failed miserably at maintaining my blog and I still haven’t got any of my short stories published in a literary journal. As ever, the biggest barriers are time and resources, particularly a quiet place to work during down time from my day job – and perhaps too much emphasis on entering competitions to try and raise funds. Meanwhile, the passion project I started in 2013 is on the back burner, while I concentrate on more achievable goals …

On the bright side, I’ve had all the therapy I’ll ever need and never had to pay for it …

Moe recently, since my writing style leans towards the filmic anyway, I began to experiment with screenwriting. Now, since completing an introductory course at Edinburgh Uni, I am renting desk space one day a week in a film production office and have started a feature film and script versions of three of my short stories. I let each story ‘choose’ the medium it is most comfortable with – a story that has potential as both a book and a film is more appealing to me right now and I have a wee bank of stories in both formats.

My priorities then over the remainder of 2017 are:

  • finish a novel I started a few years ago and secure an agent, with an eye on later developing it into a script
  • finish my feature film script before October, so that I can get it to just the right industry professional at a writers retreat for which I have won a partial scholarship that I still can’t afford (bawling my eyes out). But since I do believe in miracles, you just never know …

Both projects offer me the best chance of success, with scope for some form of mentorship. Also:

  • plug away at getting short story publication in a literary journal
  • seek out an indie film-maker who might be interested in one of my short scripts
  • maybe even resuscitate my blog.

And so ends my manifesto to myself …

July 2017