Writer Unblocked

By Rachel H Grant

Anna gently stroked the stairwell banner. It was smooth as a beach stone, but beauty breathed in its contours, a magic piece of art. She sighed. It was not an easy – or indeed a wealthy – life as a cleaner in 1890. Despite this, she loved her job; the art gallery was her home, every sweep of her brush like caring for her own baby.

She collected her mop and bucket and, a devoted smile on her young yet lined face, began to clean in earnest. There was not much she was good at in this world, but to her cleaning was an art. Her auburn locks fell over her face as she worked, the fixed look of a religious disciple in her eyes.

To her, the world stopped as she cleaned. Dust was doomed, as her mop weaved its magic.

*

Jenna smiled as she walked to work, her glasses slipping down her nose as if they were laughing too. A job as librarian at the newly renovated Aberdeen Art Gallery, proud to be over 130 years old. Modernity blended with history, as the past embraced the promise of the future.

The Art Gallery Library was perfection in architectural prose. A secret corner of the gallery, housing countless art books within its newly created shelves.

According to the gallery cleaner Brenda, it also housed a ghost. A friendly ghost who moved her mop bucket and left a scent of rose petals in her wake.

Jenna grinned. She believed no such story. The cleaner simply had an imagination that perhaps made her mundane job more interesting – good for her!

As she entered the library, she was surprised to see a book on the counter. Strange, she was sure she had left the library tidy last night. Without another thought, she shelved the errant tome.

*

Anna floated through the night library. This was her home now. She did not understand how she got here, memories were like leaves in the wind in her head. At some level, she understood that she was a ghost. But she did not mind. There was nowhere she would rather be than the art gallery which had been her life, its very bricks living in her soul.

Anna smiled. So many books to read. But she had all the time she needed. She would read every one.

*

Jenna found another book just lying around – this time on the floor – when she opened the Library the next day. She sighed. She better not mention this to the cleaner, it would just feed her ghost theory.

A draft suddenly played with her hair. She looked round, but there was nothing there. Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she thought no more of it and concentrated on the day ahead.

*

Anna put down the book. She had read enough. What had suddenly intrigued her, was the notepad left on a desk by a young teenager, tired of his homework. She fingered it greedily. An idea ignited, her imagination afire. She fondled the biro pen on top of the notepad, and donned an invisible smile.

It was time to do more than read, it was time to kindle her knowledge and let it fly.

Her silent smile widened.

*

Jenna picked up a notepad left in the library, and put it behind the library desk in case anyone came to claim it. The next day, however, the notepad was back on a table. She frowned. Again, she picked it up and placed it behind the counter.

Dismissing the incident, she prepared for her day.

*

Anna wrote and wrote, her smile as bright as gold. She poured her love of the art gallery in to every page, as she described her 1890 life as the luckiest cleaner in the world.

And still she wrote, long hours each night, impossible deadlines of now, now, now! screaming in her head.

Finally, the story was finished. She placed the pen on top of the notebook, and silently laughed. She had really done it. She had written a novel!

But who would ever read it?

*

Jenna scowled as she found the notepad back on the table. Sighing, she lifted it up. As she did so, it fell open. There were pages and pages of old-fashioned handwriting.

Intrigued, Jenna sat down and began to read. It was a story of the art gallery a century ago, and the life and loves of a cleaner who worked there. It took Jenna the whole day, but she read it all.

At the end she cried:

“Anna placed her mop in its bucket one last time. Age had shrunk her face, and aches crept up her legs. She had given her life to the gallery. And now she may never leave. Poetry pulsated in her heart as she looked around one last time. It had been a life worth living.”

*

Anna flew around the library. But something was different. She felt …. Free.

*

Jenna approached agent after agent. Finally, “Art Gallery: The Life of a Nineteenth Century Cleaner” by Anonymous was published. It did not in any way become a bestseller, but it sold thousands within the Aberdeen area.

Jenna smiled. She felt free, like an important task was lifted from her shoulders.

*

Anna flew round the library one last time. It was time to go. A door of light opened before her, and quietly she crept through. She said goodbye to the art gallery, and did not look back.

The library grew quiet in the night calm, as the art gallery slept. Tomorrow, a new day would dawn.

By Rachel H Grant

Story inspired by visit to Aberdeen’s revamped and re-energised Art Gallery, the new cultural heart of the city, an avenue of art leading ultimately to your soul. A place to peruse life, and to ponder eternity.

The story features the painting Afterglow by Joseph Farquharson (4 May 1846 to 15 April 1935), a famous Scottish artist renowned for his winter landscapes, often at sunrise or sunset.

**

Carla strode purposefully through Aberdeen Art Gallery, like a dog sniffing out its owner she finally found it. Her favourite painting, Afterglow.

Her long blonde hair drew a curtain around her face as the tears welled in her eyes. Five years of unkempt unhappiness, and now this. Divorce. She stared hard at the painting, as if it could magically whisk her away, numbing her pain and massaging her heart with hope. But of course it would not. However, she tried to imagine herself there, in between the winter trees, feet crunching through untouched snow, trying not to scare the rabbits. And on the horizon, the pink glow of a sunset, heralding a new day to follow and new possibilities. Reluctantly, she smiled.

Carla closed her eyes. The dark engulfed her, snow cold and winter refreshing. Something cold landed on her nose, then the taste of snow melted on her tongue. Her eyes reluctantly opened on a beautiful winter landscape. She smiled. This was weird but it was thrilling too.

She walked through snow as white as unopened milk, as frost fondled her fingers. She laughed. Why, she was in the painting! Carla was beyond disbelief, only happy to have escaped her woes if only momentarily. The rose light beyond the trees lifted her spirits, hope in the sky feeding the hunger of her soul.

The rabbits ran in to the trees. She was all alone. It felt somehow good. Until she heard soft footsteps in the crisp snow behind. A tree branch snapped.

Clara looked behind. An old woman with long white hair and wise eyes smiled at her. Her clothes were bleached white with age and she used a large tree branch as a stick.

“Where … where am !?” she stuttered. But she already knew.

“You are in your own dream, a waking reality just for you. Come, child, have fun in the snow, it is time to reclaim your inner child and your lost dreams. Set her free!”

“Who … who are you?”

“I am the lesson of time, I am the piece of your heart that you forgot. But have fun girl! Play in the snow! This winter landscape, there is no one else, just us. Walk with me.”

The old lady took her arm gently. As they walked, the snow seemed to grow brighter but the day darker.

“Learn to laugh again, this is what you need to do. Learn to sing with joy, breathing in the magic snowdust of a new day.”

They walked slowly towards the rose sky ahead.

“Can you feel your inner child inside? So desperate to break free.”

Clara stuck out her tongue and caught a snowflake. She could feel hysterics erupting in her stomach, unreality and disbelief forming a web of weirdness in her head. But she did have an inner child, the repressed part of herself that still cried in her nightly dreams. Perhaps this was her chance to heal the scars.

“OK, I will let my inner child free!” she cried.

“Wise words, as you release your childlike fears maturity will wrap you in fully realised womanhood. But I must make haste, and leave you to your playtime. Farewell, dear friend!”

The old woman marched on in to the soft tones of the dying day. Carla was alone. But it felt good.

Snow melted in her heart as she rediscovered the joy of building a snowman, and numbed her hands as her heart grew hotter. She laughed, but there was no one to hear. The cold snow regarded her, as she placed two stone eyes on her creation, a stick for a nose and a leaf for a mouth. He looked as ridiculous as she felt.

She laughed again, but this time with less conviction. It was no longer fun being a child. That’s when she felt it. An odd emptiness in her heart. It felt lighter, it felt … older. Had she cast it out? Her inner child? Is that what healing her inner child meant? Losing that infant side of yourself, and happily marrying in to maturity?

No, not yet, she decided firmly. It was time to play once more. There were an army of snowmen to create.

The old lady watched her from the shadow of a tree, and smiled sadly.

Night fell, and Clara began to feel the cold. This was no longer fun. Then she saw it. A tree house above, with smoke coming from its tiny chimney. She smiled, in wonder. Who lived there? Perhaps the old lady? Nervously, she climbed the rickety ladder. The treehouse was small and warm, with blankets before a small wood fire. But it was empty. However, she was too tired to care. She would rest now, and tomorrow the dream would be over.

**

The Art Galley caretaker was surprised that a light had been left on overnight in one of the first floor galleries. He sighed. Someone was not doing their job properly. Slowly he mounted the stairs, arthritis massaging his legs.

The gallery was quiet, an early morning hush like a church in prayer. Then he saw her. A young girl, four or five, fast asleep at the foot of the Afterglow painting. Time to call social services. He sighed again. Who had left a child behind yesterday? This day could only get stranger.

He did not examine the painting. If he had, he would have seen a new set of double footprints in the snow. An adult foot following the path; and a child’s footprint returning to the edge of the frame.

**

Carla woke aching the next morning. She looked around in surprise. She was in the treehouse, the fire long extinguished. Was she still dreaming? Slowly she crept down the tree and looked around. A rose pink dawn shone through the trees. It was beautiful.

Hidden behind a tree, an old lady watched her younger self, and smiled. She had much still to learn, but fortunately there were decades left for her to do so. All alone, in the expertly painted forest. All alone, until now.

Far away in another world, a young child cried as a social worker took her hand. “What is your name?” “Carla,” she muttered incoherently. Then louder, “Carla.” If she said it enough times, it just might be true.

They quietly walked away. The Afterglow painting remained unwatched, still and serene as ever. The rabbits stood in the snow, as perfect as on the day they were painted. But they were alert. For they were no longer alone in the woods.

Fresh footprints appeared, then they were gone, erased by the morning snow. The woods were silent, as they had been for years and as they would be for many more, home to stray souls with nowhere to go. Two hearts beat on, trudging through the snow in a forest without end. But always ahead, the rose sky spoke of hope. Hope for a new day, hope for an escape that never came.

(c) Can Stock Photo

By Rachel H Grant

The shop was quiet, books lining the shelves like sentries to a secret world. Unseen, a hidden ghost danced alone. It was time for a happier ending.

*

The bookshop door tinkled as it opened, a tiny bell gifted to them by Jake’s mother. He had spent so much time here, like a second home, a place as delightful to him as a favourite book. It was only fitting to pay some respect. Dorothy stood apprehensively inside the doorway, surveying “Waltzing Words” with her teacher’s eyes. So this was Jake’s favourite haunt, her most talented English pupil. His suicide had rocked her like a gale force wind. Such a wicked waste.

“Can I help?” Evelyn approached her customer, reading pain in her eyes. Her purple hair rained down her back like a New Age waterfall, her green eyes sparkling with a quiet madness.

Dorothy’s hands wrestled with each other as she said quietly, “I just wanted to see it for myself. The shop Jake loved. You remember him?”

“Of course, he was our one person homework club. He would sit at that corner table with his school books. It was such a shock.”

A book suddenly fell from a high shelf. They both jumped. The title read: “I Am Still Here.” Hurriedly, Evelyn retrieved the book. “There’s work going on next door,” she murmured, her eyes glowing. “Reverberations are coming through the wall.”

“Nonsense!” Dorothy looked school teacher stern. “So it is true what they say, the pupils at the school. This bookshop is haunted.”

*

Naomi browsed the fantasy section of “Waltzing Words.” Unicorns stared in to her eyes with secret knowing; wizards waved their wands and placed her under their spell. Then a book fell at her feet. “Beat the Bullies,” proclaimed the title. Nervously, she picked it up. Was it true, was there a ghost in this shop? Was it Jake?

How she had fancied him from afar. His pale ginger locks, his cool green eyes. But she hardly knew him. She had seen him being bullied and knocked around, and how she wished she had helped. It was too late now.

Naomi opened the book. “It’s never too late.” The words dropped like bricks inside her heart. She blinked. The words rearranged themselves, she had simply misread the sentence. “It’s never right to bully.” She smiled. Perhaps she would buy the book.

*

Lucas entered the shop nervously. Jake had been his friend, in fact he had been Jake’s only friend. Was it true that he haunted the bookshop?

As he closed the door, a book fell at his feet. “It’s True,” shouted the title.

Lucas shuddered, but whether from fear or hope he did not know.

*

Naomi was enjoying “Beat the Bullies,” making notes, thinking that by helping other kids in a way she would help Jake too. The words “It’s never too late” played inside her brain.

She would speak to Dorothy, that nice English teacher, about her ideas.

*

Evelyn twisted the pen in her hands. There was so much she wished to write. But she did not know where to begin. Slowly, she let the pen glide over the page as if by its own volition. Then she looked at the words.

“Write about a bookshop ghost.”

*

Naomi began to write a story. “Beat the Bullies” was its title. It would be about a bully who turned in to a superhero. She smiled as the pen moved effortlessly over the page. This was fun.

*

Lucy stood at the till with her chosen book, Unicorn Magic. She needed some magic, all right. She had been bullied relentlessly for the last six months.

She opened the book. “You will be bullied no more.”

She blinked. The words rearranged themselves. “The unicorn stared in to the girl’s eyes.”

She smiled. This book would be fun.

*

Naomi wrote and wrote in to the night. She could not stop. The story screamed in her head, demanding to be written straight away. This could be fun, she forced a smile on her face. She would make it fun.

*

Lucy came to the last page of her book. The unicorn was gone, back to its mythic land. The girl would never see it again. Tears pricked her eyes like a bully’s fingers.

Then the words rearranged themselves. “The unicorn stayed forever.”

Lucy smiled.

*

Evelyn’s book was taking shape. She laughed at the absurdity of her plot. No less than Shakespeare was haunting a book shop. Throwing books off shelves with special messages for children. And secretly searching for a new young talented writer. A Shakespeare for the 21^st century.

Until one day he found him. A young boy called James (but really in her mind it was Jake). A talent to tutor.

Tears formed in her eyes. Jake would not return. But she would continue to write in his memory. Words formed on the page beneath her, as tears joined them and made beautiful patterns.

A pattern that imprinted itself on her heart in indelible ink.

*

Lucy began to write, words jousting in her brain like gallant knights. But which words would win? She smiled. This story would have a better ending, one where dreams really did vanquish the dark, and where unicorns guarded lost children and guided them home.

A unicorn would come to the biggest school bully, and it would change him, bullying bashed on its head and defeated forever. For in her story, unicorns and happy endings were real.

*

Naomi laughed. Writing should not be this fun. Did she dare show this story to Dorothy, the English teacher? She smiled deeply, perhaps, just perhaps she would.

*

Dorothy was late for work. She rushed up the school stairs, her breath catching in her throat like a nervous bird. With surprise she noted that two school pupils were outside her office, apparently waiting for her.

Naomi and Lucy were smiling. This was good news, as they were both a concern to her, coming in to class with frowns like a malignant mask.

“We have an idea!” chirped Naomi.

“Yes,” nodded Lucy. “A book of short stories, about bullies and the bullied, but most of all about happy endings.”

Dorothy beamed with ignited enthusiasm. “Tell me more!”

A sudden wind tousled her hair. She looked round, but there was nothing there.

*

Evelyn’s shop had a new regular. She watched him keenly, as Bobby slowly sat down at the little writing table. She put down her pen and smiled. Forget her story, there was a real book opening before her very eyes.

Bobby felt that all the books on the shelves had eyes, watching him, waiting. Frantically, he began to write, words waltzing together, poetry in motion before his eyes. He wrote in supplication to the eyes searing in to his back, please stop looking! Please stop if I just create magic, real wizardry of words on my page. He wrote and wrote, about a little boy ghost, who changed the endings of books. Bobby grinned. This was surprisingly fun.

Endings morphed in to mysteries, boring endings vanquished by soldiers of literature, champions for a better story, literary Lancelots. Bobby laughed. Somewhere, there was the perfect story with the best ever ending. He would find it and make it his own.

Bobby laughed again. Writing should not be this much fun. Hidden eyes watched him, then were gone.

*

Naomi and Lucy’s book of stories was published, and placed for sale within the school and at Waltzing Words. It gained recognition, winning a national teenage fiction prize. Naomi and Lucy were both signed by a literary agent and went on to collaborate on further anti-bullying teenage fiction. Happiness like no other held their hearts. And who did they have to thank? Jake of course.

*

“It is time to reap your own fun,” an angel whispered to invisible ears. “Which literary landscape do you choose?” “Narnia,” replied Jake. Then he was there, a summer meadow before him and a large lion in the distance. He chuckled with glee.

*

The bookshop became quiet. No books fell off shelves, and no endings changed. But a memory of something special remained. Bobby felt it as he wrote in his corner, an imprint of magic in the air that would not disperse. Bobby smiled. The bookshop felt peaceful , as words waltzed in his head.

And so Bobby writes the ending to this story:

“Every child who entered the little bookshop received a gift of dreams come true. Each story delivered a bespoke ending just for them, a better goodbye to all the words that had gone before. The satisfaction of the perfect ending would never leave them. There is nothing better than a happy ending. But to this story, there will be no ending. For the magic of the written word will last forever.”

Bobby fingered his pen, smiled and began to write once more. Evelyn watched him, a happy ending in her heart. She looked round her shop, all the books and all their endings, as tears formed in her eyes. From afar, a voice whispered in her ear. “I have my happy ending. Cry no more.” She froze, then slowly smiled. Sometimes happy endings were true.

Recently I watched the superlative Royal Ballet production of Romeo and Juliet, streamed live to Vue cinema. Echoing through the cinema like footsteps from heaven, divine dancing lit the night with an invincible fire, the fire of creativity, sheer beauty that can burn through stony hearts and make an audience cry. Yasmine Naghdi delivered a credible and powerful Juliet, while Matthew Ball excelled as Romeo. Here is my short story inspired by the performance.
**

Julia had dreamt for the past month of this evening, déjà vu massaging her mind as she snuggled, content and excited, in to the comfortable Vue seat. She was to see the Royal Ballet at last!

The story of Romeo and Juliet had mesmerised her nine year old head. The romantic tale was sour and sweet at the same time, tragedy mixed with true love melting on her tongue like a pill to paradise. Her paradise, the one where she could dance.

“Please, p-p-please can I have ballet lessons!” she implored her mother the next day. “I will take less p-p-pocket money! I will do anything! I want to dance so much.”

Then, her first ballet shoes were in her hands, the leather soft to the touch, the ribbons shining with their own inner radiance. Ballet became her life. And as the months passed, her stutter disappeared, like a ballet shoe that no longer fit, to be discarded in the trash. She had never been happier.

Years past. Ballet had ensnared her soul like an addiction. It was all she lived for.
Until one day Julia met Sam. Love pierced her heart, and hid her ballet shoes. He was all she wanted. She watched him from afar, too shy to speak. Then one day he noticed her. He came from a family that did not speak to hers, some childhood quarrel decades before. They began to date, but kept it secret. Their very own Romeo and Juliet romance.

The two competing loves in her life tore at her heart strings, until one day she received the offer to study ballet full-time: five hundred miles away, in London. But could she leave Sam? The dilemma destroyed her happiness, as tears became the nightly norm. Then the decision was made.

Ballet had won, as she had always known it would. Tears turned in to ballet shoe prints, winding toward a future of dance.

*

Years passed with the speed of a corps de ballet on steroids. Julia waited to go on stage, her secret smile bursting with childhood dreams. She had made it! Today was her debut as Juliet. Fantasy would have its finale.

The role fit her like old clothes, familiar and comfortable. Disbelief and dreams entwined in her head, as reality met romance. Then it was the final scene. Juliet slowly awoke from her drugged slumber, to find the poisoned Romeo. Real emotion erupted in her chest, as the tears flowed like a river of repentance. She no longer saw Romeo, it was Sam beneath her. And as her tears fell, despair enfolded her like a black cloak, drawing in the cold. All the repressed pain from losing Sam crushed her heart. As she pretended to stab herself to death, all she could see was Sam. She lay motionless, as the ballet concluded and the curtain came down. So this was the finale to her dreams.

At home later, she stared silently at the bouquet of flowers gifted to her during the curtain call. Tears fell, then slowly dried. She plucked a rose, taking it to bed with her. In the morning, she fingered the rose gently and smiled. This was her dream, this was the life she had chosen. Her happiness unfurled like the rose in her hands. There was no need to look back. There were many more finales to come on this road, and each one would be better. Living the dream was not destined to be easy, but it was worth every ballet step.

She returned the rose to its vase, and stooped to smell the beautiful bouquet. It was the scent of success.

*

In another time, and another place, a grown woman nursed a ballet shoe in her hand, silent tears falling like a winter waterfall. A dream gone too soon, a future that fate threw away. Slowly she rose, hiding the ballet shoe in her closet. It was another day, and every tomorrow hereafter would take her further and further from her childhood dream of becoming a ballerina. Some dreams are never meant to be. But ballet shoes can last forever.

© Can Stock Photo / markara

By Rachel H Grant

In the still of the night, I hear it scratching at my door. I look at the painting on my easel, the beast with lion back legs and an eagle’s mighty wings: a grand griffin. Its eyes regard me dispassionately. The scratching continues. I shiver. What will I find if I open the door?

My bedroom door is old-fashioned, just like our uncared for house. Perhaps I should just turn the key. But in a moment of folly I don’t, instead I find my hand opening the door.

The same hand that was stamped on today, the pain a memory in my beleaguered brain. School bullying is not a school board strategic priority: it is just the daily drudgery of life when you are the victim. No escape. Only this: my art hobby. It is here that I can run from the day’s torment, it is with paint that I can live again.

There is a griffin behind my bedroom door. His eyes are black and piercing, his front talons large and fierce, his wings flapping with inner fire.

He is just as I painted him.

His eyes appraise me with an eery intelligence. He caws, a shrill sound that pierces the air. As quiet descends words echo on the landing. “It is time to stand up to the bullies.”

Something inside me says that my life may not be the same again. The griffin indicates that I should mount his back. With no hesitation I do so. What can I lose after all? My feeble bullied life? Some loss.

We fly through the landing window, and as the town stretches beneath I wonder how such a beautiful place can be home to such cruelty as I endure.

The griffin flies in to the clouds. A mountain appears before us. Snow sparkles at its peak.

We land on a rocky plateau. A crowd of baby griffins fly clumsily towards us. “Who have you brought with you!” they cry, words echoing in my mind like music. Their eyes shine with childish delight.

I jump down and run happily among them. We chase each other, running in zig zags and ever widening circles. I have never had so much fun. This is what it must be to connect with soulmates. I shiver when I compare the griffin friendship to the daily hate taunts of school.

Perhaps I should never return home again.

The baby griffins glow in the indigo blue dark, their tiny wings fluttering, their talons crystals of fire. These birds are the future, I muse. They are the gateway to the world of dreams, ensuring we can continue to dream for all our tomorrows, custodians of a fantasy world that will not flicker out, a shining light in the night to all sleepwalkers, a place to come home to.

One of them flies up to me, eyes sparkling with giggles, something glowing in his little talons. “Have this! It is lucky!”

A warm object is placed in my palm. It is a tiny golden griffin figurine.

When it is time to go home, what feels like minutes later but perhaps has been hours, I clutch the figurine as if it might fly away at any minute. This is the key to my dreams; it can unlock the fantasies that keep the daily reality at bay.

I wake up the next morning, the memory of my escapades a sweet melody in my head.

I blink. Something is wrong. White walls confront me. A shining corridor gleams beyond my door.

I gulp. Am I in hospital?

“He’s awake!”  My mother is rushing through the door. “I’m so glad! You probably don’t remember do you? Anything that happened? You’ve been in a coma for three days after a fight at school.”

I don’t remember anything, just the griffins. Tears prick my eyes like pins of reality. Does this mean … that it was all a dream?

Later, I lie alone, and think of the griffins. Of course it was all too good to be true. Just a sweet fantasy from my subconscious, a little mythical world to enjoy while I slept.

Well, I could still enjoy it. They had brought me a pad and paint.

So I paint him again, my griffin. As the colour forms on the white paper, something falls from my bed. I look down. It is a golden griffin figurine.

I smile.

Darkness falls. As the scratching begins at the window, I close my eyes in a dreamy disbelief. Should I turn around? Perhaps it is only a seagull.

Slowly I turn, and my smile widens.

It is time to dream.

A cityscape adrift on creativity. An urban land sailing on a sea blue canvas, through an ocean as deep and colourful as an artist’s mind. This is Nuart, where Aberdeen’s streets become ink to inspire, its walls windows to a fine art future. Artists have lit the dark and decayed corners of this city, and gifted its citizens a glimpse of genius.

Find out about this art project here: www.nuartaberdeen.co.uk

Doors Open Day is an annual event whereby public and private buildings are open to the general public, allowing an intriguing insight into worlds usually behind “closed doors.” A sleeping history is revealed in one breathtaking trip through time, secret doors to the past, an Aberdeen textbook come to life.

We started at the Town House archives, entering a universe of ancient script, treasures in ink and yesterdays on yellowed manuscripts.

Next we explored the Town House and its delightful Bon Accord Room that takes you back to Victorian times, with ornate chandeliers and an intricately decorated ceiling. Bon Accord is Aberdeen City’s motto and is French for “Good Agreement”.

The spiral Town House stairs; a statue of Queen Victoria is below.

Finally we visited the Advocates Library, used by members of the legal profession in Aberdeen and its environs. Again the architecture was stunning, a sensory feast for the soul. The Library combines treatises with tranquillity, a perfect environment for study or contemplation, an oasis of learned peace in the centre of Aberdeen.

By Rachel H Grant

Naomi opened the new book eagerly, her nine year old blonde locks falling over the page of magical words, the gateway to another reality. Reading was her passion, a world to run away to, a fantasy to wear like a party dress that shed sparkles over the drudgery of life. Her little world could be cruel at times; but words could heal like candy coated magic.

It was a book of short stories. “Sandcastles” was the simple title of the first story. Words danced wantonly in her brain. She smiled, as reality receded.

Sandcastles stood silently on the beach, like sentries to another world. Gavin stroked one, bucket and spade forgotten. He imagined himself there, a tiny himself entering the castle, greeted by a beautiful princess … And then he was really there.

Naomi sighed as an old fashioned castle grew in her mind, its beauty beating in her heart, as words drew patterns in her brain. She closed the book, its words echoing through the corridors of her mind.

The next day she excitedly opened the book where she had left it, but to her astonishment the words were somehow different. She blinked. This was not the same story.

The beach metamorphosed in front of her eyes, waves crashing relentlessly on its shore, growing larger, beasts of white fury. The sound of thunder erupted, an equine volcano as the waves turned in to white horses.

The horses neighed in time to an invisible wind, their manes rustling in a river of time. They were here to save the Earth. It was their time, it was all time.

Naomi swallowed. She loved horses. Slowly she reached her hand out to the book as if she could touch them.

© Can Stock Photo / SURZ

In a second she was there. The horses stopped and stood still, as Naomi shivered in the wind. They formed a circle around her, eyes glowing in the moon. Naomi smiled. This was a dream, but better than a dream. The real world had receded forever.

**

Vanessa picked up the book which her mother had bought from a charity shop. It felt new, like it had never been read.

Vanessa’s long brown hair touched the page as she began to read. Sandcastles on a beach. How sweet.

Later, returning to the book, she found that the story had changed! Had she been dreaming earlier? Was this the same book?

Horses rushed through the pages, running towards a better happy ending. Vanessa smiled. She loved horses.

A girl appeared, described as a lost soul seeking a way home. She rode one of the horses bareback, long blonde tresses flying behind her in the wind.

“Come and join me,” she said softly. “It is so lovely here.”

Vanessa looked at the page in disbelief. It felt as though the girl were speaking directly to her!

Hurriedly she closed the book, throwing it in her cupboard. There was something creepy about it. A neverending story that would remain unfinished, at least for today.

Years later, Vanessa found the book while sorting through her childhood possessions. Cautiously she opened it, a dim memory partially illuminating her mind.

“I’m still here, waiting,” said the blonde haired girl. “All my yesterdays are here; but tomorrows are yet unwritten.”

Vanessa touched the page, looking at words that were taking shape before her eyes. She felt something soft beneath her fingers. As she pulled them away, a hand clung to hers: an arm was emerging from the book. Vanessa sat back as a young girl materialised.

“I am Naomi,” she said softly. “You have saved me.”

She smiled, then slowly disappeared. Vanessa shook. What had just happened? Gingerly, she opened the book. It fell to the last page of the first story.

Naomi awoke in her bedroom as if from a long slumber. The dream drifted from her mind, as reality rectified her vision. The beach was gone. Far off, she thought she could still hear the horses, could still feel the salty sea air, and then this sensation also faded.

She looked round a room from the past. So her story had not ended on page six. Her life had returned.

Vanessa laid the book down, and shook her head. Something magical had just happened, but she did not know what. In any case, she wished to get rid of this book as quickly as possible.

**

Anna smiled as she fingered her new book. A story to escape to, a new dream to devour.

The beach sighed to a hidden music. Horses emerged from the waves, neighing in time to a silent story. Footprints weaved across the sand, but there was no one there. The horses sighed again, looking for a friend they had lost. One day, they knew they would be reunited.

Anna closed her eyes, and in her mind she was there, alone on a quiet beach as horses ran by her side. It felt good. But how would this story end? Perhaps it never would.

And in Anna’s mind, a happy ending grew like a beautiful flower. She smiled again. Opening her eyes, she slowly closed the book and returned to her homework.

Its words could wait until later. For after all, it was a story that would never end, the illusion of a happy ever after forever held in an unreachable future. But it was better that way; all good stories should never end.

So the book lay there, clutching its secrets like jewels, as new stories were born, words unread in a world that did not care, their happy ending forgotten already.

By Rachel H Grant

Emily gazed at the pink sky, trying to find meaning in the meek rose tones. The colour lit a hope in her heart, a sky of secrets and solace.

It reminded her of her favourite picture, Afterglow by Joseph Farquharson. A painting profound in its simplicity.

That night she dreamt that she was in the painting, walking on the crisp soft snow and facing a pastel pink sky that beckoned a far off day, a new beginning, a better destiny.

A rabbit grazed ahead, unaware of her presence. The sun shone on fur that glowed like gold. It felt like a dream, the rabbit could not be real.

But of course, it was a dream.

She walked slowly towards the rabbit, hoping not to scare it. Finally, it looked up, staring in to her eyes with golden pools of knowing.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said the rabbit wordlessly, the words appearing in her mind.

She stopped, shocked. And then reminded herself that this was only a dream.

“It’s not only a dream,” said the rabbit. “At least, not for me. I am Fiver. You may know me from the Watership Down children’s novel.”

Emily stared. “Fiver is not real, this is all in my mind.”

“Nonsense!” snorted the rabbit. “I am as real as you. What do you think happens, when an author creates a character and hundreds of thousands of children read his book, believing the story? It creates us, that’s what! The collective power of thought makes us real. And where do we go? We live in a dream world, a space between your thoughts, a place beyond the reaches of normal time and space. And sometimes others join us, like you, just for a little while. But unlike you, I cannot awake from this dream.”

“So how long have you been here?”

“Time is meaningless here. I wander here and there, in some ways I am free but in other ways I am a prisoner.”

Emily sat down on the snow. It did not feel cold in the dream. She began to talk to Fiver in earnest, a conversation surely deep but one which faded away in the reality of dawn.

Emily awoke the next morning clutching her hot water bottle as though it were a toy rabbit resting on her heart. Fiver’s golden eyes appeared in her mind, and then were gone.

A few weeks later Emily was walking through a local wood, perhaps looking for a reminder of the dream she could not forget. Then she saw it. A rabbit. He turned and looked at her with deep golden eyes, then ran off. Quickly, she followed.

They arrived in a silent glade. But there was something wrong. A figure lay collapsed on the ground. Emily ran to him, quickly establishing that he was breathing and then placing him in the recovery position. An ambulance on the way, she sat down with the man to wait.

The rabbit had disappeared. The paramedics arrived shortly, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

She never saw Fiver again, although she came back to the wood many times. Her dreams were empty too; each night she prayed to visit the dream wood again, but it did not happen. She remembered his eyes that day: was he begging her to follow him? Did he know about the man? Was the rabbit even Fiver?

So many questions unanswered. Years passed. She had forgotten all about the Watership Down rabbit.

She lived a good life, finally ending in a pleasant nursing home at the age of 98. Each night she lived the dreams of the elderly: memories from across her life accosting her, some sweet, some bitter. Her body grew tired. One night she lay down and was asleep instantly. She was there again, in the Afterglow painting. Memory pricked her subconscious brain. She had been here before.

Slowly she walked through the crisp soft snow. A rabbit appeared before her.

“I have been waiting for you.” The words appeared in her mind like magic. “I knew one day you would return.”

Emily smiled. For some reason, she felt at home. She was dreaming, and she was in her favourite painting. In a room far far away, her aching body breathed one last time.

“You are free now,” said Fiver. “Just like me.”

A figure appeared ahead of her. “I am Mr Farquharson.” Emily’s smile grew deeper. She had woken in a magic world, and would never sleep again.

She walked towards the man, gazing at the pink sky, trying to find meaning in the rose afterglow. The colour lit a hope in her heart, as she walked deeper in to the dream.  Far away, a painting hung silently in an art gallery, keeping its stories secret forever. A pink afterglow lit up eternity. Peace reigned in a world that could not die.

Calum climbed in to bed on Christmas Eve, a heaviness in his heart where Dad should be. He missed him so much at this time of year. Another Christmas Day would dawn, with another empty spot at the table.

When he woke up, he clambered clumsily to the window and then gasped.

**

Dawn was excited, her first Christmas as a mother! She ran downstairs and then stopped. Where was her Christmas tree?

All over the village, families were waking up and were dumbstruck. Where had their Christmas tree gone!

**

Calum rushed out his front door, and stopped in speechless wonder.

**

Five year old Bernie jumped up and down in rage. “I am going to find my Christmas tree!” he shouted as he ran out the front door.

**

Calum walked around his courtyard, the first smile he had worn in months on his face. Christmas had really arrived!

**

Santa Claus hid behind a wall and watched as the children of the village descended on Calum’s front courtyard. They were shrieking in delight. Calum welcomed them with open arms. It was time to party like only children can. They chased and screamed around the garden, in and out of the twenty or so Christmas trees that had appeared there overnight, a true Santa’s grotto.

And under each tree were very special presents, with the name of each child on them. Santa had visited, and he had now left a mark on each child’s soul that would last their entire life.

The spirit of Christmas rained down on Calum’s garden, as magic melted in each child’s heart. Calum would not feel alone again, now he had some new friends. And Christmas was complete.

Santa softly departed, a smile in his soul that would never go.