The final story in the trilogy is an eye-witness account of a significant event in the history of motorsports. While racing (and sports in general!) is not usually one of my interests, my dad's impressive memory for detail brought the story to life, the ending of which stayed with me for some time. As with … Continue reading Stories in Isolation: The 82nd Hairpin
The second story in the trilogy I am sharing has a much darker ending than the previous one. Regardless, it provided a figurative escape during a terrible time, especially as my friend is a very animated storyteller. Like the first story, I have injected some creative flair, although little was needed! The events depicted are … Continue reading Stories in Isolation: Rogue
In March 2020, my partner, Stephen, became seriously ill with Covid. We shut ourselves off from the world and each other, only opening our respective doors for food and medicine. Four miserable months later, we emerged with a host of physical and mental health difficulties in tow. My memory of those sixteen weeks in isolation … Continue reading Stories in Isolation: The Great Chicken Heist of ’67
A snapshot of a Tuesday morning in Plymouth (UK) in 1941. Elizabeth's recollections are stitched together with reams of fear, but a moment of calm between a storm of moments has given her time to reflect on the terrifying events of the night before. Despite her fear, or perhaps because of it, she still has … Continue reading In the Eye of the Storm
The last time I stopped at this wooden bench in Central Park was with my dad and Stephen, eighteen months ago. Stephen and I had just relocated to our first flat in Plymouth and my thoughts were a whirl of cardboard boxes and contracts. While the move itself is a coffee fuelled blur, I can … Continue reading Park Your Fears
“But rabbits are so boring!” exclaimed Mum. I was after all, speaking to a woman who was sticking strands of my waist length hair up the cat’s nose while cradling its whale like proportions in her lap. I looked at her aghast anyway, although at a recent house party I had also argued that cats … Continue reading Prey
A toddler waves his chubby fists at the English Channel like a tiny fisherman’s wife while his mum sits neatly on a craggy chunk of granite, electric blue tassels swaying cheerfully from her ears. Behind the tassels, a girl with hair that glows like the moribund embers of a forest fire picks her way across … Continue reading L’appel du Vide
I find myself inexplicably drawn to the little chest sandwiched between a battered copy of Treasure Island and a hard cover edition of a Chambers Dictionary of Etymology, its paper wrapping long ago discarded. Pens and pencils rattling, I remove the art deco stationery holder that has been rudely balanced on top of it. Running … Continue reading Little Box of Memories
Lydia Ruth 