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June and Midsummer … so I am opting for a lighthearted theme this month.
Please, therefore, in 500 words or less let your imaginations run wild conjuring up some MIDSUMMER MAGIC.
Of course, some may prefer to touch on dark magic and that is fine too.
Looking forward to reading your entries. Jill
Prior to the magic going black
June 23rd, Caithness
Pre-dawn on a midsummer morning, Tait Duncan, drove south-east along an A1 empty of all but Highlands-bound supermarket wagons, conscience similarly uncluttered by the lie he’d last night told his wife as to the reason for his early morning departure. (In what had become the daily conduct of their marriage it was no more than a gnat’s cock of misinformation— no harm to her — of the life he’d been living since his teens. Nor had he then heard of Lucy Longland (and was similarly ignorant there’d come a time when he wished he never had.)Eight miles south of Dunbar he took the Cove exit. Golden light from the just emerging sun, blazed into the car’s interior, near-blinding him. Snapping down the visor restored sight and safety, but failed to reveal the deaths which would result from the carelessness with which he seized another opportunity to deceive. (By midday the sky was black with unseasonably cold rain. Had he dismissed his desire to disprove his staid existence; to emulate the careless hedonism of the man he’d come to meet he might’ve recognised that as warning and escaped before mourning coloured his life. But no.)
Cove itself kick-started distraction. As bairns it had been the setting for John Buchan-inspired adventures. Nowadays, it was Trust-protected from the scourge of massed caravans; an undertaking part-funded by its use as a venue for film crews and fashion shoots. A use Tait had no quarrel with; Duncans of Dunbar being first choice for the haulage of their equipment.
He descended past bungalows perched for the view; past older thick-stone cottages, to the gate, open as Lars promised. The cliff-clinging road beyond in good repair, but needing concentration; similarly the concrete-patched parking space overlooking the harbour; liver-coloured walls forming a protective square; a south-facing narrow gap providing entrance to the now-sparkling sea; Lars’ yacht an incongruous gleam of pristine luxury.
Appreciating, Tait stepped out of the car. Lars himself, tanned and lithe as toffee, stood high on the bulwark between beach and ocean, camera in hand and a long-legged red-head, dressed in something better-suited to a ball, posing against the blue sky as he snapped and snapped again. A shouted, ‘Ten minutes, Tait, is all,‘ gave time for envy, Lars’ dismissing the woman with a kiss, and instruction to go for a walk, ‘No more than an hour, for the tide,’ before jumping down to stand beside Tait. Shoulder to shoulder, they watched her stroll along the jetty to the ladder below which the yacht was moored. Watched her remove the scarlet dress, pulling it up and over her head, bundle it up and drop it onto the deck below before climbing down. Stark naked.
Tait, silent, assumed Lars was reliving the previous night. For himself, the cries of the gulls, raucous above his head, gave voice to an ache of sexual deprivation he rarely permitted himself; the repetitious thud of water against stone behind him, underlining its futility.
[493 words excluding title. This an excerpt from my current wip, its timing too coincidental to ignore]
Halfway through June and one intriguing Midsummer Magic story. Hoping the second half of the month will ‘conjure up’ more magic from Denizens!
Gentle reminder ~ only 4 days left should anyone wish to add to the single, intriguing entry for June’s competition…
Stonehenge
The moon has departed leaving an impenetrable night with a cold mist gently rising across the still fields around Amesbury. In the hedgerows around one expanse of grass, sparrows packed close are beginning to shift in their sleep. To the east of this field a steady gaze would be rewarded with the slightest bloom of purple in a world that is otherwise as black as newly laid tar.
From somewhere comes a faint, rhythmic sound.
Closing in on this sound, through the night, across the field, it gets louder.
The morning purple slowly changes to grey, then a hint of structure to appears. One of the structures is making the sound.
It’s snoring.
‘ERRNEUG!’
‘OW!’
Teabreak’s arms begin to wave to and fro, as though he is swimming. His head remains still, face pinned to the muddy grass.
‘What?’
‘Oh, my, God! Ow, ow, ow!’
He sits up and looks at the darkness.
‘Gordon Bennet. My head. What am I doing here?’
Then he remembers, slowly at first, then more rapidly. That bird in the pub.
***
Chubby, Trish, Dave, Shaz and him had piled into a car to drive up from the Smoke with tents and that, to see the sunrise at Stonehenge. Last summer solstice of the twentieth century. Shaz said it was special.
They’d gone to this pub nearby, the Antrobus Arms. Posh old place. Chubby wanted to play pool so they made up teams of couples leaving Teabreak as a spare egg in the full English.
‘Course they did!’
So he got chatting with this girl, who was all on her own, Alwin, or something like that. She was nice-looking. Mysterious. He told her what they were up to with the tents and the solstice. And he moaned a bit about being the extra bloke. But mainly it was a cool evening until Alwin said, ‘How about a stroll?’
And Teabreak said, ‘OK.’
He shouldn’t have, because he’d had seven pints and a couple of shots. And when the cold air hit him, that was more or less the last thing he remembered, except — did she say something weird, or did he imagine it? He thought she said, ‘Don’t worry about the solstice. You can have my seat.’
***
From the field, Teabreak decides to walk to the campsite which is on the outskirts of Amesbury. He guesses the direction and stumbles along heading north-west, right into the middle of Stonehenge, where, feeling sorry for himself he falls asleep.
‘Wake up Teabreak!’
It’s that Alwin girl’s voice. He looks around astonished. It’s rammed with all sorts of weirdos. But somehow the view directly ahead of him is clear. Where is she?
‘Don’t look for me. Look at the sun.’
He turns back just as the sun appear over the horizon. It washes over him. There really is something magical about it. Then the crowd of hippy types close in and the view disappears.
‘Next year drink less.’
But he doesn’t find her, and he never goes back.
499 excluding title
Well, the June competition became a real competition thanks to an eleventh hour entry from Athelstone… and both entries are worthy of being winners, but I shall have to choose one Denizen to hand over the baton to for July.
Sandra, it was lovely to have a glimpse of your writing style, your ‘voice’ in the extract from your WIP. I love your use of language, the suspense and the intrigue. It left me wanting to read what came before and what, indeed, happens when ‘the magic goes black’.
Athelstone, you have written a different take on Midsummer at Stonehenge. I love the way the story began with atmospheric descriptions of nature around the site and then the change of ‘tone’ bringing in Teabreak and friends’ goings on. Just when I thought it was going to be an ‘idyllic’ piece! In the end it did become that with the magical sunrise. The mysterious Alwin? Is she a magical being? Did you purposely use that name for her because the name meaning has associations with elves? (Albeit, usually a male name…)
Thank you both for entering. It was a pleasure to read your excellent entries, but I have decided to declare Athelstone the winner of the June competition, simply because I love sunrises and sunsets too, as you may have gathered from my ‘avatar’!
So, over to you Athelstone. I look forward to seeing what you devise as a theme for the July competition.
Jill
I confess I feel slightly guilty. I read Sandra’s entry and thought it was splendid. Then I sneak in at the end and…
Anyway, thank you for the prompt, Jill. The solstice was my 70th and I went from not thinking I’d make it, to writing a little story about it so that’s something.
No need for guilt, Ath! Congratulations of your Solstice 70th Birthday – wishing you many more to come. Hope the healing is progressing apace.
Hooray!! Well done Ath for your last minute, colourful Teabreak entry thus rescuing me from having to devise July’s competition and thank you Jill. for your kind words re ‘Snap is not a Children’s Game’, adding impetus to my getting on with it.
Incidentally, I wanted to call the girl Aelfwin but I had trouble getting the A and e to combine into a proper “ash” at the start of the name. Then it occurred to me that a drunk Teabreak would be unlikely to remember that anyway, hence “Alwin, or something like that.” I think Alwin is still sometimes used as a female name, but I could probably have got away with Aelfwin. They’re both essentially the same name and I like the literal meaning “Elf friend”.
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