The Storm

This story was written on the week that Storm Ellen swooped across the Atlantic Ocean, hitting Great Britain and Ireland.

The Storm

I lay in a crumpled heap. Forgotten and lost. The other sad souls that had been piled on top of me groaned and moaned, unable to escape. Pungent smells of sweat and grime were putrid and haunting. I dreamt of my old, happy life. I was so comfortable and fresh in my lush home. But all of that was over now. Blackness surrounded me – a heavy blanket of mourning.

As I became accustomed to the darkness, there was a sudden flash of brightest white sheet lightning. Without warning I was bundled into another dark pit of doom. Ominous thunder began to rumble from all sides of the enclosure. The horrific thunder continued until the weather abruptly turned savage. The wind was a puppeteer and we were its marionettes.

Torrential rain beat down upon us and the wind swept us round and round, until I felt faint. Water was creeping up and drenching everyone in reach. We were crammed in like sardines, constantly spinning and banging into each other. Suddenly, the relentless torrent of abuse ceased. Had this torture ended? As hope leaked into me, I sighed with relief. But it was short lived. Once again, we were spun round but in the opposite direction!

Over the next half an hour we faced tempestuous rapids that would suddenly subside, only to return moments later with a vengeance. I’d even stopped glancing up in the hope of being rescued. Would I survive this madness? Just when I thought I could take no more, we were hurtled round, faster than ever as a tsunami of waves engulfed us, reaching a crescendo! By then we were just a blur of colour. After many painful minutes of the sickly sensation, we stopped. Hopefully for good. I had lost my bearings. As I was hanging upside down, disorientated and nauseous, a distant voice shouted, “Mum! The washing machine’s finished!”

Home Sweet Home

Sanquhar has its own wee pattern- the most popular being the Duke. The Duke pattern was named after the Duke of Buccleuch who gave a large order for gloves in the 1880`s. As usual I wrote a piece about Sanquhar/Crawick's history. Hope you enjoy!😀

Home Sweet Home

The light shone through the moth-eaten net curtains that hadn’t been opened in decades. The red paint was peeling from the ancient door, revealing the brown wood beneath. Despite being old and musty, the charity shop was welcoming. The little lady that ran the shop, Miss Miller, always greeted customers with a broad smile and a twinkle in her eye. Every day she listened to her old-fashioned record player that sang ragtime music as she swayed and hummed to the melody. Sometimes when no one was looking, my fingers would tap to the beat as well!

The china dolls were always picked first. I don’t know why. They may look beautiful and glossy but on the inside they’re just dull and hollow. Did you know, they never even looked at me. Well to be fair, nobody did.

All the antiques that lived around me seemed completely void of personality. The games were glum and the dolls, drastically dull. Why were they always picked instead of me? My days were terribly lonely – thank goodness for the jazzy ragtime music! I lived with my brother, Leftie, amongst the other gloves. Driving, woolly, leather – all types. Leftie would rather sit in the box and curl up in a ball, whilst I preferred attempting to cheer all the other gloves up or thinking up new escape plans, that usually failed. One time I actually tried catapulting myself off the shelf, only to be sat back in my box after being trod on by a large foot. Ouch!

When he’d finally managed to unravel himself for more than two minutes, Leftie told me an interesting story about our great great great grandparents from 1880 and the origins of our name. They too began their lives in the quaint village of Sanquhar but had climbed the social echelons, living in the grandeur of Drumlanrig Castle. Apparently they also began on an ordinary shelf until the high and mighty Duke of Buccleuch gave a large order for gloves and they were chosen! The knitter was so privileged that we would forever be known as the Duke pattern.

I could not believe that our ancestors were aristocrats and here we were in a charity shop, our lovely navy and cream pattern dusty and faded. As we had been a donation to the charity a long time ago and, seemingly ordinary gloves, no one knew of our regal past and didn’t spare us a second glance.  If only someone would realise we weren’t just any old gloves. We were special.

Leftie didn’t feel the need to try and draw attention to himself. He was so full of inherited self-importance and firmly believed it was best to save his energy until he would be used again. But I couldn’t wait. I literally had to take my life into my own hands. Silently, I crept through the shop in the dead of night. Fingertipping my way past the snoozing dolls and rocking horse, I eventually hoisted myself up onto the countertop next to the till and waited for the shop to re-open.

It was a cold and icy morning. Miss Miller had her trusty record player softly playing an old favourite of hers, Tiger Rag, as the tinkle of the bell sounded. A young girl stepped over the threshold accompanied by her mother. She browsed the shelves as her mother waited at the door. As she came closer to me, I noticed the familiar navy pattern on her scarf. My goodness, it was one of us! The Duke pattern draped elegantly around her shoulders. A pang of hope filled me from my palm to the tips of my fingers. She turned to pick up a china doll. Of course, I thought miserably, but she hesitated and put it down quickly. She’d noticed me and made a bee line straight for the counter! Her eyes gleamed with happiness as she picked me up. Miss Miller smiled and ushered her over to the box in which Leftie sat. The girl closed her dainty hand over him and beamed down at us. She took us joyfully back towards the counter and admired us in the mirror. Miss Miller gently took us out of the girl’s hands and put us in a colourful paper bag. The light that shone through looked like dancing rainbows.

We sat inside, shaking in anticipation. Leftie crouched beside me, equally excited and nervous. None of us spoke. The journey in the paper bag was long and bumpy. I began to wonder whether it would ever end. As we came to a stop, a hole formed above our heads and the small hand reached in, snatching Leftie and I right off our fingers! Sunlight, glorious sunlight dazzled my drugget. As I became accustomed to the brightness, I saw the little girl with long dark curls and a beaming pink face once again. Her startlingly blue eyes gazed down at her new Duke patterned gloves. We were somewhere that we could call home at last.

THE END