This page is to display writer’s work chosen to entertain the reader
The first piece to be published is a story written by Dougie Shepherd for the Halloween themed session:
THE HALLOWE’EN RITUAL
Majestic autumn had finally arrived. Later than usual this year, but always a welcome arrival. My favourite season. I always take special comfort from the vivid turning of the leaves on their trees into their warm and vibrant autumn hues.
I had parked my car at the layby and entered the woods through the hole in the wall.
I had visited these woods on the thirty-first of October every year, for the past fourteen years even though they spooked me. I’ll admit it. This place really gives me the creeps.
No one really came here. These woods had a reputation for being haunted.
I laughed to myself. Ghosts. How could people be so stupid to believe in all of that?
But I was drawn to this place. Every anniversary I’d come here. Just me. Alone with my thoughts.
It was twilight now.
The remnants of the fading sun flickered through the trees, highlighting the golden hues of the brown, red and golden leaves.
I took the same route every time. There was no path. Like I say, no-one ever came here.
I made long, purposeful strides and the forest floor crunched underfoot, a vibrant tapestry of colour, as I made the walk.
I was struck by the silence of the place when I suddenly heard footsteps behind me. Soft, delicate footsteps. I could hear twigs crackle and crunch. I began to slowly turn around to see what the source of the noise was. My heart was thumping in the cavity of my chest, and I felt my hands begin to tremble. I was now eye to eye with the intruder to my privacy. But my fear was unfounded, and the young deer scuttled quickly off to the safety of bushes and the undergrowth.
The surprise intrusion had unsettled me and gave me added impetus to keep moving towards my destination.
It was darkening and the yellowy moonlight flickered as the clouds passed hurriedly by in in front of it, silhouetting my shivering body.
Visibility was diminishing now, and I carefully watched my footsteps on the uneven ground and kept walking.
After a few minutes I could make out the outline of the giant yew tree up ahead. I was nearly there. A gust was getting up and there was an eery noise of the forest dancing to the wind’s tune in the dusky light.
Out of the blue I felt a sharp strike across the top of my head, and I fell to the forest floor. I clutched my forehead in pain, and I could feel that I had drawn blood. I sucked the blood off my fingers before wiping them on my trousers and wincing at the bitter taste of my blood. A branch had detached from a tree and struck me. But I was fine, and I slowly picked myself up and moved towards the yew tree.
I was cold now and a sheen of perspiration coated my nervous body. I pushed aside the branches of a rhododendron bush, and I was now alone in a clearing in the forest, just me and my thoughts. Complete silence. Not a sound to be heard other than soft flutter of the last of the remaining leaves on the trees making the slightest whispers in the cool, gentle breeze.
I leant against a tree, the tree, to capture my breath. I panted until I managed to regulate my breathing then slowly moved around the tree.
I smiled. The initials of me and my former girlfriend, Luisa, were still legible after all these years. DS + LC carefully hewn into the gnarled bark of the aged tree, surrounded by a rough love-heart, which was pierced by a Cupid’s arrow. Tacky, I know. I wondered to myself if anybody had ever actually noticed it.
The memory was ingrained in my psyche. It had taken me several hours all these years ago to craft it, vigorously hacking into the bark of the tree with my trusty Swiss Army knife. Luisa was by my side then. And in my heart still.
It was a lonely spot here. A place that only me and Luisa knew. A place that I hoped would be our secret for eternity. Our special place.
I smiled to myself before throwing the red rose onto the ground in the small clearing. The same ritual, same day, and time every year. I started the walk, retracing my steps back to my car, quietly comforted in the knowledge that Luisa’s grave remains undiscovered. It was the scene of my first killing. But not my last. Oh no, not by a long chalk . . .
Dougie Shepherd
Falkirk Writers Circle 