Three Pieces of Writing

Hello sweet readers,

I felt bad leaving you with a post that didn't contain any a) writing or b) sewing.

So to make up for it, I've typed up a few stories that I've written over the past year. Mostly I've written these on buses or in breaks between classes (or in classes, sometimes, but not too often I promise!)

There are three pieces and I've included a little bit of background about each of them. Have a read and comment if you feel inclined. :)

Enjoy!

♥Nancy♬

Story 1: The Walk to the Bus

This one is intended to be a complete piece; I guess you could call it flash fiction. It was an exercise in imagery and description but I think it came out a bit on the Telling side rather than the Showing side. Also, it's a bit wall-of-text-ish, since there's not much dialogue, and I couldn't work out a good way to split it into paragraphs, sorry!

The world is full of smells this morning. As I turn away from my front door, I am subject to a gust of perfume from the fiery ragged blossoms that adorn the gum tree in my garden. The breeze that carries the scent is blessedly cool after the wretched night I just sweltered through. I trample straight past the ragged blossom and across the dewy grass to the footpath. Rising off shiny tendrils on the road is the bitter smell of tar; my nose wrinkles against it. I begin to walk, slowly at first, down the street towards the bus stop. My bus pass is clasped tightly in my right hand, the thin plastic edges indenting my skin. The next smell reaches my nose as I walk. This smell is a complex aroma with many notes. First, it is the clean scent of eucalyptus; it’s not a surprising smell since I’m just walking past a patch of bushland and there are little tetrahedral gum nuts being crushed under my shoes. The next smell, however, is less expected. It’s a damp, dusty scent that reminds me of red dirt, tin roofs and Easter camping trips. Rain. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I’m not even wearing a jacket, since last night was so muggy. My heart begins a pitter-patter crescendo and my shoulder muscles contract and don’t release. I don’t want to get wet. I begin to pump my legs so fast that my muscles burn. They’re not used to this kind of activity but I’m determined to stay dry. I hunch over more, which makes my bag seem heavier on my back. My heart starts to thud thud thud in my chest. The increased activity makes me take a deep breath. And there it is again, the taste of dust and rain on my tongue. The smells are fresh and clean and they would be welcome any other day: God knows we need the rain. But I have my textbooks in my bag and I curled my hair this morning. Getting wet will ruin everything. Luckily, the bus stop is within sight. It’s one of the older ones with a little bench under a shelter, the ones painted blue originally but redecorated since with years of teenage graffiti. Usually I avoid it because there are always broken brown beer bottles on the ground and it invariably smells like piss, but today I’m just looking forward to being safely undercover. I’m practically running at this point, the bus shelter is getting closer with every step. With every breath, my lungs are filled again with the warning smell of rain; I swear it’s getting stronger. A cold pin-prick hits my arm. As I hurry along, I look at my skin; yes, that’s a rain-drop. The grey footpath begins to show dark grey splatters. Another cold pin-prick hits my arm, my other arm, my cheek. I’m mere metres away from the bus shelter now. A rumbling reaches my ears and my heart skips a beat as I mistake it for a thunder clap - but no! It’s an old bus, grumbling its way down the road. I reach the bus stop, panting and wearing raindrops down my arms like a shawl. There’s no time to hide from the rain under the bus shelter. I fling my arm out to signal the bus; the water drops splash off my skin and into my eyes. The bus’s brakes scream even though there’s plenty of stopping distance. I bounce on the balls of my feet and grind my teeth while the lazy bus meanders to a stop. Finally, it shudders and halts; an orgasmic climax to the previous leg of its journey. I’m desperate for a respite from this incessant sprinkling. I can see the driver through the yellowing glass of the bus doors: he pulls the lever to open them. The doors twitch, making a creaky plastic sound as the decaying seals rub against each other. But they don’t open. I see the driver wiggle the lever back and forth. My teeth squeak a little as I grind them in anticipation. With a groan, the bus door slowly opens. And just before I step on to the bus, the sky stops pussyfooting around the issue and pours down an ocean of rain down on top of me. I step on to the bus and flash my bus pass at the driver.
“Bad luck with the rain there,” he says, with an apologetic shrug.
I harrumph and stalk my way down the bus. Water drips from my chin and my previously curled hair sticks to my cheek in straight lines. I smell like wet textbooks, wet hair and rain.

Story 2: Bathtime

This one was an attempt to write a story that ended somewhere very different from where it began. It's not really a twist ending, technically, but that's the sort of feeling I was going for. It's also a complete piece; woohoo for flash fiction!

I trip over the threshold as I dive into the cupboard. My knees burn as they slide against the carpet. I push myself back onto my feet and reach for the door. It’s a door made of wooden slats so it’s easy to get a good grip on it and pull the door closed. I am plunged into darkness. I sit down on the carpet. My chest is heaving as I pant; it was a long run to this hiding space. Goosebumps rise upon my bare skin; it is cold here in the cupboard and I long for the clothes that were so recently torn from my body. The carpet is scratchy on my bottom. I stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from giggling; the whole situation is utterly absurd. I hear footsteps coming closer to the cupboard.
“Where’s Katie?” sings out the male voice that hunts me.
His rhythm of speech is kind and soothing. I know it’s a trap; I shuffle back deeper into the cupboard. I’m sure of my safety here; he’ll never think to look in this cupboard; I’ll be fine.
“Where could she be?” says the voice.
He is toying with me, trying to scare me out of hiding. I won’t be tricked. I wiggle further backwards into the cupboard. I nestle in against a suitcase and a hat box. I chew my fist to keep from losing my nerve and calling out to my pursuer. I see his shadow as he stops outside the cupboard I am hiding in. No! Why did I hide here? I am so vulnerable: cold, naked, alone. I lose my nerve as his hand grasps the handle of the cupboard door and whimper. He flings the door open.
“Got you!” he said, his tone light but the meaning malicious.
I screech and press back against the suitcase. But he is too big and too strong. I lose my bearings as I’m hoisted out of the cupboard, into the air, and nestled into the awful man’s arms. I beat my fists against his chest, I struggle wildly against his grasp.
“No! No!” I scream at him.
The man takes my protests in good humour, carrying me away with ease.
“Come on Katie,” he says, “bath-time!”

Story 3: Koras Over the Cliff

This one is not a complete piece, but I don't really know what it could turn into. I think it would probably end up as a fantasy story of some kind. It's just an exciting opening that establishes some preliminary setting stuff, relationships and a conflict.

Koras gripped tighter to the rocky face of the cliff. The biting wind caught his cloak and dragged his body sideways; he dug his fingers into the rock and grimaced against the pain. He kicked out with his feet in the hopes of gaining some purchase against the rock but the pain made his eyes lose focus and his stomach somersault violently. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with his leg in this state.
“Koras!”
A voice floated down from the top of the cliff.
“Ziza!” he screamed back.
But Koras’s voice was carried away by the wind.
“Ziza!” he screamed again, at the top of his lungs.
For a moment, Koras thought that the wind had stolen his voice again. He slumped, hopeless, staring up at the top of the cliff. A pale face appeared over the edge, staring down at hi. It was Ziza. Koras had never been more pleased to see her.
“Koras, hold on!” she called.
“I am!” he yelled back.
But Ziza was already gone, and all Koras could see was the end of her long black plait flicking out over the cliff edge as she turned. He pulled up with his fingers and tried to take a deep breath. He was fatiguing. The exertion was bringing a sweat to his brow and the wind was chilling it.
“Hurry, Ziza,” he muttered to himself.
The wind caught him again, swinging his body sideways and then slamming him against eh rocks. His legged knocked the rocks and he grunted at the pain. His fingers began to loosen their grip on the rock.
“No,” he moaned, trying to dig his fingers deeper into the stone face of the cliff. But the crevasse he was grasping was made of rock that was crumbling slightly; it would not hold his weight much longer.
“Koras!” Ziza’s face appeared over the edge of the cliff again.
“Ziza!”
“Grab this rope!”
A thick rope tumbled down from the top of the cliff. Koras grunted as the rope hit him in the face.
“Grab it, Koras!”
“I’ll fall,” he gasped.
He was sweating heavily and freezing cold. His leg throbbed with pain. His arms and shoulders ached.
“You’ll fall anyway, Koras,” Ziza yelled back at him.
She was right, of course, and he simultaneously loved and hated her for it. He decided that his right hand had a tighter grasp on the rock. One hand, then the other, that was the way. The wind slammed his body against the rock once more and Koras made his move, striking out at the rope with his left hand. His balance against the rock was even more precarious. He breathed in, then out, and shifted his right hand to the rope as well.
“He’s got it!” yelled Ziza, “pull him up!”
Slowly, the rope was pulled and Koras moved up the cliff. His hands were red raw from the rocks and the rope but he kept an iron grip as he ascended. As he reached the top, he prepared to put his leg out to scramble up on to solid ground. He got his left leg on to the ground and pushed up as hard as he could, knowing that his right leg would be utterly useless. Strong arms grabbed at him as he threw himself up onto the cliff. They tried to steady him.
“You’re okay, I’ve got you,” said a deep voice.
The voice seemed to be attached to the arms. They smelled like dirt and male sweat and leather. Oh god. Ziza had brought a sports team to rescue him. A hard, muscled arm wrapped around his waist.
“Can you stand, mate?” asked the rescuer.
And then Koras tried standing on his own and all he could feel was the shock of pain in his right leg. The world went black for just a second. Koras opened his eyes to discover that he was lying on the damp grass, staring up at Ziza.
“Koras! Koras, wake up.”
“Ziza, hey,” he said, and looking into her deep black eyes almost made him forget the pain.
“Medic!” yelled a voice.
“He’s here,” Ziza called, and stood up to move away.
“No, wait,” said Koras, but he could barely even move to sit up, let alone chase after Ziza.
With great effort, Koras lifted himself up on his elbows so that he could look around. The first thing that he saw was his own leg. It sat at a strange angle and his trouser leg was soaked through with blood. The next thing he saw with Ziza, holding another woman in an intimate embrace. The woman - she was tall, with brown skin and nearly-white hair - opened her eyes and met his gaze over Ziza’s shoulder.
“Ziza,” Koras said, trying to reach out to her.
The women broke their embrace and Ziza turned back to him.
“The doctor’s coming, Koras. I’ll be right here, with Magra.”
“No,” Koras groaned.
But Ziza and Magra were backing away already. The medic dropped to the ground and Koras was forced to turn his attention toward the imminent medical care. He looked away from his beloved best friend and away from her bitch girlfriend, who’d crushed his leg and thrown him off a cliff.

Good Day

Hi everybody!

Okay so I haven't blogged all year until now. I know, I'm the worst. I'm sorry. But I've been seriously busy studying for a Masters of Speech Pathology! :D

I have been sewing and when I get this project finished I'll be posting my documentation here on this blog.

I haven't been writing very much.

But today I had a really Good Day and so I just thought, "I should blog this" - on the grounds that maybe my joy can be spread around to other people that way and maybe my Good Day can be a Good Day for more than just me.

And so, in roughly chronological order, here are the things that happened today to make it a Good Day.

1. I got to read my book on the bus. (For those interested, I'm currently reading Morrigan's Cross, by Nora Roberts, which is the first in her Circle Trilogy.)

2. I felt really smart in my phonology lecture. (Because the lecturer asked for examples of activities so I provided an example and she said it was a good example.)

3. a) It was a lovely sunny day outside.

3. b) With a nice breeze so it wasn't too hot.

3. c) And I didn't get sunburnt! :D

4. We had a stuttering lecture. Today it was about genetics and it was super interesting, as always. (Our stuttering lecturer is Janet Beilby and she is a truly excellent lecturer and we are very lucky to have her.)

5. I had Wok-in-a-Box for lunch with Eileen. Wok-in-a-Box is my second-favourite take-away food. And it's always cool to hang out with Eileen.

6. I had a cup of tea and I also had a chocolate digestive biscuit and I dipped the biscuit in the tea and it was lovely. 10/10 would do again.

7. The world smelled sweet like honey while I was walking home from the bus stop. (Probably because all the flowers are full of nectar at the moment.)

8. a) I played netball tonight.

8. b) In a team of awesome ladies.

8. c) Against another team who were all really lovely to play against.

8. d) AND WE TOTALLY WON

9. The song "The Final Countdown" played on the radio while I was driving home.

And there you go, nine excellent things happened all in the one day. And that is why today was a Good Day.

I hope you had a Good Day too. :)

♥Nancy♬

16th Century Linen Kirtle Project: Complete

Hi everyone!

It has been so long since I last blogged at all and even longer than that since I last blogged about the 16th Century Linen Kirtles that I was making as an SCA project.

In case you're not aware of my project, let me direct you to some of the previous, relevant posts. Firstly, my 16th Century Kirtle Update includes some pictures and ideas about the sort of dresses that I wanted to make. Next, Patterning Success! details the process of me being patterned for the kirtles (guest starring Rosie, who did all the hard work). Then I did updates on my Blue Kirtle and my Cream Kirtle.

That last update came in January this year and since then I've barely done any work on the project. Until just recently, when I had a burst of motivation and finished it all off.

Blue kirtle first!

Here's what it looks like all spread out on my floor, in its finished state.

The hardest part of finishing this dress was the need for lacing holes. I got an awl as a belated Xmas gift. I love my awl. However, I definitely made my lacing holes too small and it has caused no end of problems, which is really disappointing.

Here's a picture of the lacing holes down the side of the dress:

And here's a picture of the two that I put in the shoulder. I did these much later, after I realised that I'd made all the original holes too small, so they're a better size.

Doing the lacing holes on this dress took a really long time because I wanted to sew them in matching thread. In order to do that, I had to find some matching thread. But linen thread is already pretty hard to find and it's even harder to find in the right colours. So what I did, on Rosie's advice (again - she was a total lifesaver during this project) was pull threads out of the leftover linen. It took ages to pull out enough threads, especially because they kept breaking as I was trying to extract them from the fabric. They also kept breaking while I was sewing the lacing holes, which is why quite a lot of them have little fuzzy bits sticking out.

Once I had the lacing holes sewn, I put in a make-shift lacing cord so that I could do the hem of the dress.

Here are pictures of the outside of the hem and the inside of the hem. I sewed most of the hem using my using plain white linen thread but I also did some of it using the blue threads that I had leftover. I probably should have stuck to the nice white thread because the stupid blue threads kept breaking everywhere. It's weird how they can hold together as fabric but not as individual threads.

Last but not least, I needed a proper lacing cord for the dress. I found some really cute aglets on the internet, from an eBay store in NSW. You can find them here: http://www.ebay.com.au/usr/medieval_shoppe. I was really looking forward to having aglets on the end of my lacing cords because it would make the whole lacing process so much easier. But I was very silly and didn't test the aglets on the lacing holes that I had already sewn... More on that tragedy in a moment.

I spent a lot of time contemplating the best way to make lacing cords. Originally, I wanted to do fingerloop braids. However, I decided against them because a) they can be pretty bulky and b) you have to knot them at the end or bind them and I'm so terrible at doing those binding things with thread. In the end, I went for lucet cords, which actually worked out pretty great in the end.

I made three lucet cords. Two blue ones, one for each side of the blue kirtle, and one white one for the cream kirtle. The thread that I using was the linen thread that I got from Ellen for my 21st birthday. I was planning to use it for weaving but I haven't yet.

I sewed my beautiful aglets onto the lacing cords. And then I found out that the stupid lacing holes that I had spent hours sewing were TOO SMALL. And the aglets were TOO BIG and thus could not fit through the holes. The holes that I did on the shoulders are actually the perfect size, but unfortunately I didn't make all the holes that size. So I took the aglets off the lacing cords. Luckily the lucet cords have quite small ends and they fit through my tiny lacing holes just fine. But still, ugh. I feel silly. And I will DEFINITELY make bigger lacing holes next time. That is a lesson well-learned.

Anyway, here's a picture of the blue lacing cord. It's a slightly different colour from the fabric of the dress, but I have unfortunately reached the point of not-caring. Also I don't think it really matters that much.

Onto the cream kirtle, which followed basically the same steps. Here are the lacing holes:

These ones look a lot nicer because the thread that I used was a lot nicer. The thickness of this dress made them a lot harder to sew, though. If there's anything that I learned from this project, making the interlining of the dress as thin as is practically possible is one of the most important steps. Mostly that's a comfort thing, because a heavier bodice is just really hot and uncomfortable. But also it's because I am sad about my aglets. Speaking of aglets and therefore lacing cords, here are some pictures of my lacing cord.

Here's the hem:

And here's a picture of the dress spread out on my floor, so you can see the whole thing:

So that's the end of the dress part of my linen kirtle project. However, the project also involved two more parts. 1. a shirt and 2. sleeves.

I made the shirt as soon as the blue dress was wearable and have been wearing it ever since, but it was only last night that I added the buttons. Which was a slight disaster, but I will tell you about that in a moment. First, here is a picture of the shirt (it needs ironing, I know):

And I thought you might also want a picture of the gussets under the arms. Gussets are kinda tricky but I worked it out and not only did I sew it but I also finished all the seams, so I think it turned out pretty neatly. It would probably look a lot better if it hadn't been worn and washed and badly ironed, but here it is:

I had some nice buttons from the button shop in NSW but unfortunately they have gone AWOL, so instead I used some of my stash of tiny wooden buttons that I have. When I made the shirt, I made a vital mistake at the collar and cuffs which was that I didn't leave any overhang for fastenings. So I put a button on the collar of the dress to make it look nice even though the collar can't actually meet around my neck... lol? I also put buttons on the cuffs. And I sewed buttonholes but they are TERRIBLE. And hardly even big enough. And I just don't even care that much to be honest, but maybe I'll fix them up later. Anyway, if I push hard then the buttons fit through the holes and I think they might be able to fasten around my wrists. But maybe not. I've been wearing it without buttons for so long anyway, it doesn't really matter. Here are some pictures:

Finally, I made sleeves. They're in a colour called Ginger; it's the same type & weight of linen as the dresses. I think the shirt is a little lighter, I think it's 3.5 and the others are 5.3 or something? Anyway, I whipped up the sleeves in about two days. I used the pattern straight out of the Tudor Tailor, which made it really easy. I pre-washed my fabric (very important step) and spread it out on my floor. I've been catching up on Season 4 of Warehouse 13 which means I've been working in my loungeroom. Carpet is so inconvenient, ugh. But luckily I have a big plastic board thing which I can work on and it makes the cutting out process easier.

I drew the pattern on using tailor's chalk. I have 4 colours so I always try to use one that will show up  but not show up too much. Anyways, I drew it on and added my seam allowance (this is the worst thing ever to forget; I'm so paranoid about it) and then cut it out. Then I turned it over and traced around it, because the sleeves need to be opposite to each other. Then I had to measure in the seam allowance. I like to draw in my lines because it helps me to sew straight, otherwise I end up all wobbly and by seam allowance is uneven and it's just a mess. I prefer to be precise, when I can. This is something that I started to learn about myself over the course of this project.

After I cut out both sleeves and had all my sewing lines marked, I sewed up the sides so that the flat piece of fabric became more sleeve-like. Then I flat-felled the seams. This involved finding out which sleeve was which, because I like to have the seams finished towards the back. You can't really see it on the outside unless you look super duper close for the tiny white flecks that show where it has been sewn. But it's the principle that counts, I guess, and I feel better for knowing that I've been consistent-ish.

Anyway then I just did a little rolled hem around the cuff and around the top of the sleeve, which I think turned out pretty well, although it's a little wiggly around the top, but I don't think it will be too noticeable when I'm actually wearing them.

Then I made four little lucet braids. I tried to pull enough brown/ginger threads out to make same-colour lucet braids to use for sleeve-tying. But they just kept breaking and it was really frustrating, so I ended up doing them in white, which I think is just fine. I sewed them on to the top of the sleeve so that they are permanently attached. That's something that I learned when I did my cotton kirtles for practice: it is very annoying having unattached strings for tying.

Here are some pictures of the sleeves:

And that is the end of my 16th Century Linen Kirtle project.

It's not perfect. There are a lot of things that I wish I had done differently, a lot of things that I will do differently in the future and plenty of things that I have learnt about sewing and about myself during the process.

It took a really long time, but that is mostly because of the time that I spent not doing the project rather than the time that I spent actually working on the project.

I'm just really glad to be finished with it, to be honest.

So where does that leave me?

Well, Aimee gave me some beautiful metal belt fastenings as a present after she went to Festival, so I will definitely be turning them into a belt as soon as I have the time/materials.

Also I'm going to Canterbury Faire early next year and I think I will need some extra garb, so I'm going to whip up another cotton kirtle. I would prefer to sew in linen but cotton is cheaper and easier to access, so that's what I'm going with. I think it will go quite quickly and turn out quite well because of all the things that I learned while working on my linen kirtles. I'm going to use just one layer of the grey horse-hair stuff as my interlining, I think that will be fine. Well, I'll find out, anyway!

After that finishing my hat project will be a priority, but I'll need a bunch of white linen for that so I will definitely need to save up a lot of money and do an order.

And then I will move onto bigger and better things, most notably a crazy foray into the 14th century because I want a cotehardie, maybe in like a Ginger or a Mustard colour and I have some lovely light blue linen to do an over-the-top cotehardie, with gold buttons and tippets and it will just look lovely I think.

Anyway now I'm just rambling so I'll sign off now.

I probably won't blog again this year, sorry!

MERRY XMAS! :D

♥Nancy♬

Loving History

Hi all,

So today in our seminar we did poetry. Which, when we first started, was something that I was actually quite scared/uncomfortable about.

But we did some great activities and at the end we had a chance to write our own sonnets (using some phrases/images etc. that we had earlier devised).

I was not feeling confident about it but I came up with this poem and I don't completely hate it.

So, with little revision, here is a poem (dedicated to Adamo).

♥Nancy♬

Loving History

You wear a suit of shiny bruised protection:

Metal covers your head, elbows and knees.

As sounds of violence echo through the trees,

I remove your helm, with great affection.

With lemonade, we drink some ginger wine.

I kiss your neck with gentle, loving slurps.

We drink until the bubbles make you burp!

(These kisses let me show you that you’re mine.)

With every sip of warming ginger spice

We head a little closer to our tent.

To removal of your armour you consent;

Drunk, you let me pay you my bride-price.

The outcome of the battle is a mystery

To we who are in love and living history.

Delicious Erotica

Hello from EDINBURGH!!! :D

Yes, I'm in Scotland. Holy carp! I'm here for a creative writing course and it is truly brilliant. There is a mountain right next door to me, I'm not even kidding. I climbed it! :D

Anyways, this course is very educational and the city is very inspirational so, naturally, I've been doing some writing.

This piece is one that I don't want to share in class (although I did share with my spec fic editorial group, even though it's off-topic).

Contrary to convention, the title is at the end (it's in bold so you can tell!)

Hope you enjoy it and, as always, leave me some feedback if you get a chance :D

♥Nancy♬

I thrust my tongue between soft folds and my eyes roll back in pleasure, eyelids fluttering just a little. The taste is sweet and fruity and reminds me of summer - not summer here, this chilly attempt at a warm season where you still want to hide under the covers to make love, but summer at home, that suffocating heat that sends you strolling into the pool first thing in the morning, legs and tongues entwining in the wet because bed is too hot. Liquid pours over my fingers, into my mouth, over my face. I look up and lick my lips, suck my fingers, wipe my face dry before diving down again. I am reminded of Christmas dessert, pavlova topped with tart kiwi and passionfruit and I think about Christmas dessert here, probably heavy pudding, the haggis of sweets. But this taste, these sweet juices pouring down my throat with every lick, suck, nibble, this is summer and love and home all in a tastebud-tantalising package. A flick of my tongue up over a ridge and I am intoxicated by the slip-and-slide texture and reminded of brandy and nutmeg. Sugar, spice, everything nice, that’s what this is made of. I find myself moaning in pleasure. When I realise that I am vocalising, I stop, blush, look up. My banana nutella crepe makes my hands sticky as I walk down the windy Edinburgh road.

Crepes

Verdigris

Hi everyone!

Today I had an idea for a scene and I had one of those moments where I just had to write it down. I felt crazy, like my head would explode if I didn't type/write/recite this idea that I was having.

Luckily I was out at an SCA Collegia and I had Aimee's notebook and pen nearby! So I wrote down this scene and it turned out okay-ish.

Then, on the drive home, I got to thinking about it and decided that it would be pretty easy to turn it into a Short Story. Like, an actual Short Story with a beginning and a middle and an end. A 100% complete project all in one day. Crazy, I know.

Anyway, two and a bit hours work later and I have a 100% complete all-in-one-instalment Short Story for you to read. It's called Verdigris. It's meant to be a bit creepy (I sure hope I achieved that otherwise it's just gonna seem a bit stupid probably).

So give it a read (please) and then I'd love to know what you think so drop me a comment or message or something if you have some constructive criticism or even if you just want to tell me that the story rocks/sucks.

Enjoy!

♥Nancy♬

Reese McCallum, or Mack, as he was known, wiped down the bar and pulled out a tray of polished pint-glasses, ready for the night ahead. It was Thursday and he expected a quiet night with no more than just the regular patrons. The regulars - big men wearing dusty boots - rocked up at half-past five o’clock and settled down at the table nearest the bar.

 “Mack,” said Joey, who’d been coming to Mack’s Pub ever since it had opened.

 “Joey,” said Mack, with a nod, and grabbed a glass to pull the first beer of the night.

The men relaxed with their post-work beers but Mack kept his place behind the bar. He loved his pub more than anything, except maybe his wife and their baby daughter, and he was proud to stand behind the bar and help entertain the miners after their hard day at work.

 “New tunnel,” one of the men said. He was speaking in low tones and Mack could only pick up a few words. “... collapsed...”

Joey, speaking louder than his work-mates, said, “and they found a creepy chest in there, a huge fuckin’ trunk with patterns and shit carved into it, all made outta copper.”

 “Full of coins,” said another of the men, and Mack had to fight the urge to go closer to listen to the conversation.

 “Ancient artefact,” said one guy.

 “Prob’ly just some stupid kids pulling a prank,” said Joey, and that was that conversation done for the moment.

At seven o’clock, a girl slunk into the pub and sat down in the darkest corner.

 “Evenin’, love,” called Mack to the newcomer.

She didn’t reply.

At eight o’clock a few of the men went home, leaving Joey and one other man as the sole patrons - except for the girl, who still hadn’t said a word.

Joey reached over the bar and grabbed the TV remote. He pushed the “on” button and the TV flickered into life; it was an old set and it made a whining noise the whole time it was awake.

The eight o’clock news came on with its unmistakeable music leading the way and a trained female reporter, Suzie, reading the headlines.

 “There was a minor collapse at Chepali Copper Mine today,” she said.

 “Shut up,” said Joey to his work-mate. Mack polished glasses while they all watched the news report.

 “Authorities say it was unexpected but, fortunately, there were no injuries. In fact, the collapse revealed an old tunnel where something very odd was found. Taylor Newnan was at the scene.”

The scene on screen changed from the sterile newsroom to the dirty entrance to the copper mine. An attractive man in a tailored suit stood next to a gentleman in work duds; they were both wearing hardhats.

 “Taylor Newnan here, for channel twenty-nine news. I’m at Chepali Copper Mine today where something very strange was found after a minor collapse. I’ve got Basil Plik with me, overseer of the mine. Basil, what was found when the collapse was cleared?”

 “A chest,” said Basil, who clearly was not comfortable being on camera.

 “A chest? Can you tell us a little about that chest, Basil?”

 “It was made of copper and it had decorations in copper we don’t know where it’s from or who put it there,” said Basil, in unpausing monotone.

 “And what was in that decorated, copper, mystery chest, Basil?”

 “Copper coins,” said Basil.

 “Thanks Basil,” said Taylor Newnan. He turned to face the camera. “A mysterious copper chest full of mysterious copper coins. Could this be a sign of the Chepali curse come to life? Some say it’s just an urban legend, but others says that mining in the Chepali region was always bound to awaken some dark evil. The truth is yet to be determined. Back to you, Suzie.”

 “Turn that shit off, Joey,” said Mack.

Dark evil? Mysterious copper coins? Who believed in that nonsense?

Joey turned off the TV and took a long drink.

 “You might wanna keep a look out, Mack,” he said, “gotta watch out for the fuckin’ copper monster.” He laughed, a deep belly laugh.

Joey’s friend, a young bloke, spoke up. “My girlfriend believes in the curse.”

 “What?” Joey said, “is she empty up top?” He made a swirling gesture with his finger around his ear.

 “Nah, just superstitious,” said the work-mate, “but she really thinks we shouldn’t be mining up at Chepali. No joke, she told me the creepiest story about cursed copper coins. She’s been researching the mine’s history for a class.”

 “Class? She one of those gone-wild college girls?”

 “She’s just smart,” mumbled the young guy into his pint glass. He didn’t say another word, even when Joey laughed and gave him a friendly clap on the back.

At half-past nine o’clock, Mack served Joey and his young friend their last drinks. He looked over into the darkest corner of the pub where the young girl was still sitting, staring down at the table.

 “Last drinks, love, if you want anything,” he called out.

She didn’t respond. Mack shrugged and wiped down the bar again.

At ten o’clock, Joey and his friend made their way out of the pub. The young guy’s last beer had been one too many and he’d left the bar supported by Joey’s big weight.

 “Night, Mack,” called Joey.

 “Later, Joey,” Mack replied.

The pub was empty now, all except for Mack himself and the girl in the corner. Usually he would have let her stay. There were a lot of reasons why a girl would be alone in the corner of the pub: she could be waiting for someone, she might have had a fight with her parents or her boyfriend and needed some space, maybe it was just warmer inside the pub than out. But tonight Mack just wanted to go home to his sweet, beautiful wife and their little daughter with her tiny fingers and soft skin that smelled like baby powder.

 “I’m closing up now, lass,” he called, “it’s time to go.”

The girl didn’t respond; she didn’t even turn to look at him.

Mack slung his tea-towel over his shoulder and made his way out from behind the bar, heading towards the dark corner of the room. The girl had been in the pub for, what, three hours now? She hadn’t ordered a single bite to eat or a drink or anything. Which was a shame, because as Mack got closer to her he could see that she was very thin and looked almost starved to death. She must be one of those anorexics, he thought, and then thought of his baby daughter and hoped that she’d never think that starving herself was a good option.

 “Hey, miss, it’s time to head home now. Can I call you a cab?”

The girl didn’t move a muscle in response to his words. She just sat there, staring down at her hands on the table.

Mack went closer.

She was holding something in her hands, fiddling with it.

He took a few steps closer, hesitant now in case she had a weapon or was on drugs or something. He realised she was speaking.

 “What’s that, love?” he asked.

But she still didn’t acknowledge his presence, let alone reply.

Mack went closer until he was standing right next to the table. He looked down at her hands. She was holding something large, round and flat. It was a coin, a copper coin, and she was turning it over and over in her hands, never once pausing.

 “Not right,” she was saying, barely loud enough to be audible, “not right, not right...”

Over and over she said it, her voice and hands a matching rhythm. She was young, too, fifteen maybe? She’d looked older from a distance.

Mack knelt down, crouching beside the table.

 “What’s not right, love?”

This time, she heard him.

 “Not right, not right,” she said, the words never stopping, her hands never pausing as they turned the coin over and over, and her head turned slowly towards him.

She looked at Mack, an empty gaze, with eyes the colour of verdigris. Eyes with no white and no pupil. Eyes the exact blue-green of copper patina.

Mack fell over backwards and scrambled away.

The girl didn’t take her eyes off Mack for a second. She continued chanting and turning. Chanting and turning.

The next night was Friday and Mack’s Pub drew a bigger crowd. Or at least, it would have, if it had been open. When the men from the copper mine got to the door of the pub they found the door unlocked but closed off by police tape.

Joey pushed his way to the front of the crowd and snatched up a piece of paper that had been stuck to the front window of the pub.

 “Mack’s Pub,” he read, out loud, “closed until further notice. Reese McCallum, owner and proprietor is missing. Anyone with information please contact the police.”

 “Mack can’t be missing,” someone said.

 “Fuck this,” said Joey, and pushed through the yellow police tape into the pub, leaving his work-mates outside. At first, everything seemed to be ship-shape inside the pub. The bar was spotless, as always; the tables were all organised.

In the darkest corner of the pub, however, Joey noticed something out of place. He went over to the table there.

 “What the fuck?” he said.

There was a copper coin sitting on the table.

In the darkest corner of Mack’s Pub, Joey picked up a copper coin. It was large, round and flat. He turned it over in his hand.

 “There’s something not right about this,” he said, out loud.

He turned the coin over in his hand again.

 “Something not right.”

He turned the coin over in his hand again.

 “Not right.”

And again.

 “Not right.”

And again.