《Caledonia Calling》 Lochbar Airport There¡¯s something terribly strange about sitting in a distantly familiar house surrounded by people that transport you back to the past. The Murdoch clan are a sight to behold, their mountainous shoulders awkwardly tussling for space on the tiny couch in front of me. Two of the brothers had given up and sat either side of my shoulders, the heat coming off them toasting me to the point of discomfort. Innis grins a ferociously friendly way that would unsettle the unacquainted but, it¡¯s familiar to me. I hadn¡¯t thought, for a second, that I¡¯d miss the damp, greyed streets of Lochbar but, the pain twanged at my heart steadily, and loudly, until I booked a flight home. The landscape had looked up at me through the tiny window of the plane with its marshy fields and concrete-slabbed buildings eating into the plant life. The lone strawberry picking farm that had human-shaped ants scavenging it¡¯s produce. The tired, misshapen runway that led into Lochbar airport. It looked up at me and said, ¡°now, where the bloody hell have you been?¡± Funnily enough, that¡¯s the first thing Innis had asked me, chortling away with his grizzly bear frame, big meat paws rattling my shoulders. Innis Murdoch isn¡¯t a difficult man to understand. He likes his rugby, loves his boys, and misses his wife. That¡¯s all you need to know about the man, not one for complications or complexities. Each of Innis¡¯ boys are a carbon coby of each other, with slightly differing haircuts. Andrew, the youngest, pushes his brother into the arm of the chair they¡¯re sitting in, rattling around his father in the process. His hair curls round the backs of his ears, tickling his eyebrow in bounced black spirals. Ian, the second youngest, swats at his brother, causing the mop of hair atop his head to flounce around. He¡¯d decided he was going to grow it out after Mairi from the local sweet shop said she fancied that long-haired bloke on BBC Scotland. ¡°You know the one that does all those history documentaries?¡± She¡¯d said, and Ian answered by vowing off scissors from the day forward. The father of these bear cubs endures the disagreement for a wee while before he implodes and roars at both of them to, ¡®wheesht it before he¡¯s annoyed to death.¡¯ He¡¯s not an unkind man, Innis Murdoch, but every person has their breaking point and Andrew Murdoch seemed to have been born to push his Dad¡¯s buttons. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Dougie, the eldest, is laughing up a storm next to me. The musical sound of it wrapping round the room like a blanket. He has embraced the full mountain-man design, sporting a scruffy beard and a long matt of black hair that Ian swears he¡¯ll have someday. ¡°You cannae let him get to you,¡± he grumbles. ¡°Tell him to stop annoying me, then.¡± Ian spits back before their father tells them all to shut it, once again. It was a last-minute decision, phoning Dougie up at the airport, as I was too scared to face his da. Maybe it was the fact that I wasn¡¯t in my right mind in the airport. The plane had argued with the concrete on its landing and my stomach contents had been thoroughly mixed around. It was as I was waiting for my suitcase, aw¡¯ peely-wally and trying not to vomit, that I realised I had no one to stay with, with the only hotel being run by the two biggest gab-mouthed shites there are. I braved my pride and rung Dougie¡¯s number, hoping he hadn¡¯t changed it. Who was I kidding? It¡¯s Dougie. He¡¯s had the same phone since 2012. ¡°Eilidh, is everything awrite?¡± His voice tumbled out the speaker like a bag of rocks being clanked together. ¡°I¡¯m in Scotland.¡± I mumble. ¡°Holy shit.¡± He whispers to himself. Well, as much as a voice like his can whisper. ¡°I didn¡¯t know if you¡¯d be coming back, I heard the news. Where you stayin?¡± And that¡¯s when I started to cry in the middle of Lochbar airport. I cried as worried families teetered around me at a safe distance. I cried as a dog peeled out from under a chair with perked ears. I cried and sobbed and whimpered by the luggage lane until Dougie enclosed me in a hug, picked me up, and ferried me away. A Tear in Reality The birds are yapping in a hurried song, barely stopping to breathe. Dust floats in front of my nose and the dry desert air exasperates the sun¡¯s heat. Flowers sit in an up-cycled molasses tin, far enough away that I won¡¯t sneeze. Between the birds squawking, flurries of conversation filter in, and out, as people pass each other by below. The barn is always lively in some corner, whether it be by the wash stalls where people hurriedly tack up their horses, or out by the back paddocks where folks get distracted by the foals we welcomed this spring. As I hop down the steps from the office, I stride by familiar faces and nod a quick hello. The goats follow me round the circumference of their pen as I walk over to my car. Something is pinging steadily inside, I can see it through the car window. My phone flashes, and dies out, then flashes once again. It¡¯s a call, an unexpected one, at that. No beating around the bush - a common attitude in Scotland - just straight out with what needed to be said. As if a cordial hello would make the news easier to digest. I didn¡¯t recognise the caller, only seeing that it was a UK number and answering out of confusion and curiosity. It was a carer, the only one who would put up with the grumpy sod. She explains that she thought it best I heard from someone who cared about him, someone who knew him. It was quiet, he didn¡¯t make a fuss about it all, she says. He didn¡¯t suffer, not in the end. i don¡¯t know how to respond and, instead, let the receiver crackle. My wits return, after a moment¡¯s notice, and I politely thank her for calling and that I¡¯ll make my way home as soon as I can. I¡¯ll book a flight home tonight. It¡¯s a If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. decision, at least. I¡¯m doing something. for the first time, in what feels like forever, my dreams were vivid that night. I stood on the shores, water foaming around my ankles and sticking to my skin. The sky is ablaze with a torrid storm, lashing out at me and piercing my eyes with spiked droplets of rain. An oil spill of hair frames my eyes and wraps round my neck. Portions of tilled roof peek out at me amidst the water, and that damn crooked chimney he always promise he¡¯d fix. A spray of water escapes through a crack in the chimney¡¯s seam, spitting out and melting back into the waves. I don¡¯t remember watching it, but I know, somehow, that I¡¯d been watching this house sink into the depths for a long time with my feet welded steadily into the sand. I¡¯d watched through the front window as rogues Christmas decorations floated around the flooded living room and the couch began to levitate. I watched as water sloshed in through the letterbox. I watched as the house sunk deeper and deeper, the sand giving way beneath it. My phone flashes beside me, waking me up from this unsettling image. I still struggle to name it a nightmare. It¡¯s a notification reminding me that my flight is leaving in a few hours. By some miracle, I had snagged a last-minute ticket at a good price as someone had cancelled and the airport were happy to fill the void seat. No time to think. Mechanical movements and autopilot get me to the airport, shovelling a nasty salad down my gullet, and onto the plane headed for Lochbar Airport. Shepherd鈥檚 Pie and Bin Raccoons Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Toothpaste Scoffer It was the first summer I¡¯d spent at Granda¡¯s cottage, well, the first time I¡¯d stayed longer than an hour, or two. The star-studded red velvet armchair, the loping thick curtains that pooled on the floor where one of Granda¡¯s cats sat curled up happily. Heat from the fireplace warmed my cheeks as it crackled and snapped in golden spurts and spirals. Animals were dotted everywhere, cats atop the sticky-noted fridge, a dog somehow comfortably sleeping across three wooden winding stairs, a horse poking her nose into the living room through a hatch that led to Granda¡¯s stables. The horse was called C¨´ and the dog was called Horse, which Granda found terribly funny. I¡¯d only gotten the joke many years later as my own Gaelic improved. C¨´ would steadily huff out her nostrils every minute, or so, when she caught a whiff of Mum¡¯s strong perfume. A decorative plate sits on a coffee table that¡¯s seen better days, another cat hides beneath its carved, ornate legs. It is laden with biscuits of different kinds yet, my eyes zoned in on one in particular. Two layers of buttery shortbread welded together with sticky strawberry jam. A circle is cut from the top layer of shortbread so that I can view, and dream about, the jam slathered in between. Granda chuckled softly as I stared intensely at the biscuits, swinging my legs back, and forth, impatiently, ¡°Go on, wee one, the biscuits are for eating, not staring at,¡± he said, nodding at the plate. With confirmation secured, I dove for the tray of biscuits, shovelling as many of the jammy delights into my tiny hands as I could. As I munched and crunched on my treasure trove of treats, I heard one of the dogs, Toothpaste, whine at my feet. Well, Toothpaste was more of a puppy, than a dog, at the time. I¡¯d asked Granda what kind of puppy she was and he shrugged, saying that she¡¯d showed up on his doorstep, swallowed all his toothpaste, cost him a fortune at the vets, and never left. She was a scruffy wee thing, with perked ears and a bouncy demeanour. I felt that if I compared her to a pile of hay, I might not be able to tell which was which. ¡­ An elderly pile of hay flops at my ankles and a waft of peppermint hits my nose. The first thing I say to Jamie, this thorn from my past, is, ¡°why does this dog smell like toothpaste?¡± Jamie scratches at his beard, sheepishly, and I hear his even-toned voice pipe up in response. The nostalgia of it staggering me, ever-so-slightly. ¡°Yeah, about that. I had her staying with me for a few nights and she got ahold of my toothpaste whilst I was brushing my teeth. Thought she was gonna swallow the whole bloody thing!¡± He says. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The dog curls further into me, winding round my feet like a slinky. ¡°Toothpaste sure does love Toothpaste.¡± I awkwardly note, barely looking at him. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s why she¡¯s called that. I just thought your Granda was running out of pet names,¡± Andrew chuckles, oblivious, from the door. He¡¯s managed to hoist himself back up as Noodle has now taken interest with the new dog in the house. She sniffs at Toothpaste, snout extended, and Toothpaste puts minimum effort into a half-baked growl. Despite the lack of effort, Noodle still dramatically scrambles away and whirs into the kitchen like a looney tunes character. Jamie explains to everyone that, no, he hadn¡¯t meant to intrude and, no, there was no emergency with the animals after Innis burst in from the kitchen, spatula in hand (reason unknown), and asks what the emergency is. We all sit on the couch and listen intently to Jamie, like schoolchildren learning the alphabet for the first time. Jamie thinks that Innis and the boys would be able to take in Toothpaste as they¡¯re already outnumbered by animals so, really, what¡¯s the harm in having another one? Someone needs to take care of Toothpaste, he notes, as she doesn¡¯t have an owner any longer. His voice trails off at this part, eyes drifting in my direction before snapping back to Innis as his booming voice interrupts the almost moment. Toothpaste hasn¡¯t left my side, being quite content in this moment to lie perched on my bony lap and blows sores out of her nose. I steadily let her, half for her comfort, half for mine. ¡°I¡¯ll take her,¡± I say in the silence. ¡°Technically, she should go to me, anyways.¡± Innis asks if I¡¯m sure, and I shrug, pointing out that I¡¯m used to caring for animals much more needy, and expensive, than her. ¡°What about Canada?¡± Innis asks, and I pause, dumbfounded, for a second. ¡°I didn¡¯t think about that,¡± I respond, quietly. He waves it off, he¡¯ll take Toothpaste in once I make my trip back. ¡°When is your flight back?¡± Jamie asks. I frown, quite dramatically, it seems as everyone recoils worriedly. ¡°I haven¡¯t booked it, yet.¡± Innis decides to take this moment to proclaim that Noodle has had extra crusty eyes lately and, could Jamie take a look. Why didn¡¯t I book a return flight? This isn¡¯t an indefinite trip back home, I have a life to get back to in Canada. A job, a house, friends. Sure, I¡¯d always felt a wee bit like an odd duckling there, humour never quite hitting the same, puzzled looks at my ¡¯odd¡¯ words and phrases, my persisting confusion at the sheer number of backwards baseball caps. No foundations, or safety nets. Just plain old me. It is a home, though. One I have been used to for the past few years, with friends that will pick me up from the airport with an easy grin and a lovingly drawn sign and animals of my own to cuddle. A car that sputters and shakes every time I switch on the ignition and a job where I¡¯m valued and wanted. So, why didn¡¯t I book the return flight? The decision should¡¯ve been easy, it shouldn¡¯t have even been something to ponder. Toothpaste sighs from my lap, wiggling around on my tensed legs that must feel like planks of wood to sit on. When am I going back? Saturdays are for Sunburn I distinctly remember the first home I got sunburnt after my move across the pond. It was a Saturday, a beautiful one, and I was a, now normal, mix of happy and on the edge. The horses were sweating away in their paddocks and the goats shielded themselves in their wee shelter, refusing to show the sun a single toe. We¡¯d often sit and chatter in the car but today was an exception given that the car is currently a heat trap licensed to kill. The spot picked for a natter today is right in the path of the sprinklers, which hits us every thirty seconds with blissful splashes of desert water. My friend, Lucy, is sitting atop a spare yoga mat she keeps stashed in her car and I¡¯m sprawled like a starfish on one of the pony¡¯s muck speckled rugs. ¡°It¡¯s too hot to think,¡± I mutter from my position, face covered by the hoodie I¡¯d snagged from the passenger seat of my car. I¡¯d wondered where the wee bugger had went and, there it was, hiding under the passenger seat with two receipts and a Tim Horton¡¯s paper bag tucked under the armpit. ¡°You¡¯ll get used to the heat soon enough,¡± Lucy remarks, rather unapologetically, as she tends to do. It¡¯s one of the reasons I took to her so quickly. You always know where you stand with someone like Lucy like right now, for example. Right now, she¡¯s very much in disapproval of my sloth-like form as I lie splayed amongst the dandelions. Storm-clouded grey eyes fix onto me as she scoops sun-bleached hair into a ponytail and slides a pair of fancy sunglasses on. Her pointed features give her glares extra gravitas. ¡°Have some dignity, woman,¡± she says, poking at my midsection, ¡°what if that handsome delivery guy shows up and you¡¯re all legs a-kimbo.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°He should love me for who I am, or not at all,¡± I respond indignantly. ¡°Plus, he¡¯s not even my type.¡± This earns me a deck chair pillow to the head. They were in the midst of drying on the grass, which explains the damp cotton taste now present in my mouth. It goes silent for a moment and I look from beneath my hoodie to find an empty yoga mat. Despite the intimidating exterior, feared by both suitors and potential friends alike, Lucy is a big softie at heart. She suddenly appears before me, shaking an iced drink in my face. The ice cubes clink together as condensation climbs the cup¡¯s exterior. It¡¯s a mix of cranberry juice and sprite, which Lucy assumes I like. ¡°Don¡¯t pass out from heat exhaustion, please. I¡¯m not dragging you home,¡± she puts the cup in my hand before settling back onto her yoga mat. i grin widely from beneath my hoodie cover. ¡°You¡¯re the best!¡± I squeal. Lucy waves me off. After a large sip, I feel half normal again. ¡°Ach, nothing better than this combination. Jamie used to make me these all the time.¡± Lucy squints in the distance, ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve mentioned him before. Who¡¯s Jamie?¡± She asks. Who¡¯s Jamie? What a long story that is. ¡°You¡¯re shoulders are super burnt.¡± Lucy pipes up. ¡°SHIT!¡± I scream. When I Met you First been afflicted in life with being pulled into the gravity of people who intrigue me. It can be the smallest thing, a laugh, a look in their eyes, the way they hold their shoulders. It can be the smallest thing, and then I¡¯m sucked into their orbit, stuck with their being etched onto my mind forever more. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Another Wee World Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. moonlight kisses the water with its pale glow and lights Jamie¡¯s face as he turns to look at me. His smile falters as he catches the tears on my face, gently stepping forward to sweep them from my skin. The moment stretches on forever, and I feel safe in this other world. Safe enough that when he sits on the sand and pulls me into his lap, I let him. Safe enough that I relish in the familiar feeling of settling myself into the crook of his neck. Myths and Legends My head falls into a dreamlike state as dark tresses of hair fan across the pillowcase. A lucid feeling sweeps over me as I feel soft puffs of breath leave my nose in a calm rhythmic beat. I¡¯m back at the beach, feet imprinted on the glistening sand below. A creature comes into view, nickering gently at me from the shoreline. It¡¯s the horse from before! With nothing to break my trance-like state, I float towards this astoundingly beautiful animal. Soft ocre eyes gaze at me with intrigue, not startled in the slightest by the presence of a stranger. The horse nickers at me once, then again before looking expectantly at me. A small glint appears by the horse¡¯s ear, so tiny that I almost miss it. The glint comes into focus. Two sparkling wings flutter gently in the night wind, a tiny head with flaxen hair is turned in my direction and violet button eyes peer at me decidedly. A small girl hoists herself upwards using silky black mane as a rope before dusting off a lilac dress that looked as if she¡¯d crudely sewn several fallen flower petals together. She props herself against the horse¡¯s ear before turning it forward like a lever. ¡°Ah, thank you, Thistle. I¡¯m afraid she was never going to understand me otherwise,¡± the horse says in perfect English, not skipping a beat. Her tone reflects the soft timbre of the Highlanders. The faerie pats the horse¡¯s ear before plopping down atop her head as if it was an old couch. ¡°No problem, Kelpers. I¡¯d be right impressed if she¡¯d have been able to understand ye like that. Hey, are you awrite dearie?¡± Thistle asks, noting my grey complexion and shocked expression. ¡°You look aw¡¯ peely wally!¡± Flashes of moments appear before my eyes. A crackling fireplace, fuzzy matching socks, and the warm embrace of my mother as she cradled me on a tattered vintage rug that her own mother had picked out at a farmer¡¯s market in her teens. Myths and legends filled my head as Mum recounted stories from her own childhood. Stories of a colossal shapeshifting horse-like creature with sticky skin that would wrap round your hands if you dared to pet them and drag you to the depths below. Stories of mischievous wee girls with wings born from the fallen pollen of flowers who said all the forbidden words you weren¡¯t allowed to say at the dinner table and led cats away from their homes. Those were my happiest moments, tucked amongst my Mum¡¯s embrace thinking of nothing in the world but how soothing the sound of her voice was. Sometimes, if I shut my eyes tight enough, I can still hears wisps of it pass by my ears. My heart aches for her still, I don¡¯t think it¡¯ll ever stop. I know all of these myths from childhood, tales from days of an older Scotland that would serve as a warning to young children to keep away from a loch¡¯s edge lest a kelpie come and drag them to their doom, or to be wary of handsome strangers that could be a seal that sheds its skin to come upon land and whisk a woman away to a life below the water. Come to think of it, a lot of these myths had to do with lochs. I thought they were just that, myths. I choose to comfort myself with the notion that I¡¯m in a dream and that is the only reason a horse creature and a faerie are currently nattering away to me as if they¡¯re catching up on the town¡¯s weekly gossip. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°I heard she kissed that vet boy!¡± Thistle giggles, kicking her tiny legs out in joy. ¡°It¡¯s hard to forget your first love isn¡¯t it?¡± She asks, blinking at me in amusement. Wings come to life as she whizzes up to me, a breadth away from my nose. Her features are soft, as if carved into malleable clay by a loving artist. ¡°How did you know about that?¡± I ask in return. Thistle giggles once more, the sound spilling out from her like a dying engine. ¡°Do ye hear that, Kelpers? She wanders into our world, lays one on a lad, and ponders as to how we know about it?¡± She says, gesturing to Kelpie standing in the corner. The horse tosses her head in annoyance before gracefully shifting into a human being right before my eyes. She is not dissimilar to her equine form, large ocre almond shaped eyes glare at Thistle whilst delicate, spindly fingers pinch her hair and shoo her away from me. She emanates an easy power, sharp ethereal features swivelling round to focus on me. Raven hair falls in waves, defined shoulders cutting through and jutting outwards. A silken charcoal dress hangs off her frame with ballet slippers that wrap round her calves like crawling vines. Thick, dark eyebrows loosen and her expression softens as she stares at me. ¡°This world is not your own, Eilidh. We thought it¡¯d be better to talk to you here rather than scare you the next time you go for a swim at Camusdarach,¡± she says. ¡°Why can I see you now?¡± I mutter, barely blinking. My frame is stiff, I am frozen as I am. Kelpie shushes an enthusiastic Thistle who rushes forward to speak, ¡°not you, you¡¯re terrible at explaining things,¡± she warns her. ¡°Eilidh, we¡¯ve always been here. You¡¯ve just never looked hard enough.¡± ¡°We thought you¡¯d notice us after your Mum died but¡­¡± Thistle pipes in, arms twisted behind her back. The fizz in her eyes is gone as she locks eyes with me, in its place a somber solemness. ¡°You must¡¯ve really wanted to open that door here the other night. Talk about going the extra mile for a romantic moment,¡± Thistle nudges Kelpie who looks irritated beyond belief. ¡°What she means to say,¡± Kelpie starts, flinging a glare at Thistle once again, ¡°is that different emotions can trigger this world for different people. For you, it was a feeling of love, not loss, that let you in.¡± ¡°LOVE?¡± I squawk, ¡°the last thing I feel for that eejit of a man is love. He had his fun and then, and then he¡­¡± I look at the startled creatures before trailing off suddenly feeling the coolness of the mist around me ticking my arms. ¡°Well, anyways. What is it that you both want, then?¡± ¡°Straight to the point, I like her,¡± Thistle says, winking in my direction. ¡°That¡¯s for you to figure out. Who knows, you might be lucky and have the wisps help you out.¡± ¡°Like Brave?¡± I ask. Kelpie scoffs, ¡°I hardly think we should be compared to a movie. No, not like Brave, you ninny. You don¡¯t want to see a wisp. Frankly, they¡¯re very haunting and awfully fond of imitating loved ones. If you think faeries are mischievous, just wait till you meet those wee buggers.¡± A distant ring sounds out behind them and Thistle sighs. ¡°I guess that¡¯s our time up, for now,¡± she says. ¡°Be sure to come back to Camusdarach when you can, though I¡¯m sure you don¡¯t need too much encouragement.¡± Before I can respond, the two disappear and the fuzzy image of a grizzly bear hovers over me. ¡°Ah, AHHHH!¡± I screech. ¡°Did you want eggs or a muffin for breakfast?¡± Innis asks, looming over me with a frying pan in hand.