Other Worlds

The Haar is on the horizon again! After a successful launch last month The Purple Hermit’s creative arts e-zine will be back in June and is now seeking contributions from writers, artists, photographers, cartoonists and anyone with something different to say on the theme of ‘Other Worlds’.

Other Worlds, real or imaginary have fascinated many writers and artists including Shakespeare, William Blake and H.G.Wells. Dreams or nightmares, utopias, dystopias, parallel universes, Other Worlds offer the possibility of escape from our mundane reality. But we don’t need a time machine or space ship to find Other Worlds. They exist right here amongst us, in the mysteries at the bottom of the ocean, in the chaos of a forgotten garden shed or attic, in the alien environments of deserts and peat bogs or just behind the lace curtains of the house next door. Other Worlds also exist in the privacy of our own minds, within the sanctuary of books and films.

Photograph by Magenta Kent

Please get in touch via the Contact Page above for details of where to send your submissions.
Poems, short stories, non-fiction must be sent in a single Word document, images as a jpg. Poems must be no longer than 40 lines, short stories and non-fiction no longer than 2,000 words. Please send no more than a total of 3 poems and/or short stories and no more than 2 pieces of visual art. There are a limited number of slots. I want to keep this community arts feature as a small, friendly space so sadly not all work will be selected.

Everyone is welcome as long as the work is original. All contributions will be clearly credited to the author who retains copyright.

THE DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSIONS IS MIDNIGHT 7th JUNE, 2021.

Get writing and clicking, the clock is ticking…

I very much look forward to reading your work on Other Worlds!

Best wishes from
Nikita Shackleton
😊

And finally as an inspirational PS here’s a film clip from Lars Von Trier’s stunning film Melancholia:-

The Haar is Coming…

Even on the sunniest Scottish day, the Haar can come in out of nowhere. For those who don’t know: Haar is a special type of fog that rolls in from the sea transforming the world into a mysterious dream. Everyday objects like the washing line or a garden chair take on alien forms and the other side of the road might as well be the planet Neptune.

Image by the author

But right here on The Purple Hermit The Haar is the name for my new bimonthly magazine slot. I’m inviting other writers, poets, artists, photographers, cartoonists or anyone with something different to say to send in contributions on a theme. This is a community feature and everyone is welcome so long as the work is original. All work will be clearly credited to the author who retains copyright. Please use the contact form to get in touch if you want to submit a piece. There are a limited number of slots. I want to keep this feature small scale so sadly not all work will be selected.

The word limit for short stories is 2,000. Poems must be no longer than 40 lines.

The theme for April’s The Haar is ‘Behind the Mask

The deadline to send in your contribution is 31st March.

I’m looking for the broadest interpretation of the theme, not just Pandemic related. Who are we when we remove our masks? What lies behind the personas we create to survive in society. We are all different people in the privacy of our own homes and we behave differently according to where we are. We all try to fit in one way or another. I’d like to see and hear what happens when we let our hair down and truly open up…our loves, fears, jealousy, anger, hopes, worries, mistakes…

Looking forward to receiving your contributions.

image by the author

The Floating Road

A dark tale from the mysterious peatlands of Scotland….

A small man wearing a hard hat waited at the side of the road just before the bend. Behind him a Toyota pick-up loaded with drainage pipes was parked in a passing place. On the opposite side a gravel track led up through freshly churned peat to the brow of a hill where a JCB digger was silhouetted against the winter sky. The man checked his mobile phone and shuffled his boots in the dirt at the side of the road. He noticed a dead rabbit lying at the edge of the tarmac. It’s rear legs had been chewed off by a predator but one eye was moving in the socket…alive.

A cold easterly wind blew in from the sea. All around him the ochres, rusts and browns of the mossy peat bog dissolved into a pattern of undulating stripes stretching out as far as the horizon. The man had twinkling blue eyes and a rosy complexion but his mouth was permanently twisted into a thin grimace as if he was trying hard not to laugh at a secret joke.

His name was Douglas Macleod but everyone called him Slip because like a fish he would always slip and slide away from troubled waters and swim towards the easy money. Slip Macleod thought he was born lucky. He inherited the family business, a Victorian farmhouse and five hundred acres at an early age. Within three years he made his first million. His wife was slim, blonde and never asked inconvenient questions, even when he indulged in ‘playing away’ and drinking weekends with his best mate Alec. At fifty he had good health. He could drink nine pints of lager, entertain one of those Glasgow tarts all night in the back of his Jag and still manage the seven hour drive home to the Far North without any sleep. A good weekend like that would set him up on a high for at least a month and the best thing was there were no consequences.

The sky darkened and the wind threatened rain. Slip had decided to continue his vigil from inside the truck when his phone exploded into the opening bars of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’. The screen displayed an unknown number and for a second Slip hesitated in case it was one of his dissatisfied customers, but then he pressed the green answer button.

‘Yep?’ he growled into the phone. There was a silence. ‘Yep?’ he said again.

‘Hello…hello…can you hear me?’ said a woman with a Glaswegian accent.

‘Yep…who’s that?’

‘…first day…return…mind the way…Gordon please…’, the line was breaking up.

‘Ye what? Gordon who…? I canna hear ye woman!’

‘…got to listen…safe please…it’s coming…’

‘Ye what?’

Slip held the Samsung up above his head trying to get a signal and moved away from the truck into the middle of the road. The screen briefly registered one bar and then none at all. The call disconnected and there was silence. Suddenly there was no wind, just stillness in the grass. Slip gazed into the distance where the silver ribbon of the floating road disappeared into the twilight haze. There seemed to be something moving towards him, a blurred shape too big and too dark to be the familiar blue car he was waiting for. Ferry traffic perhaps or a freight wagon loaded with refrigerated fish heading down the line, no headlights showing despite the November gloom. His phone rang again, now there were two bars of signal.

‘Bloody Vodafone,’ Slip said out loud before he answered. ‘Yeah, what is it?’

‘Watch out, it’s coming,’ said the woman.

‘Ye what?’ asked Slip for one last time.

He didn’t feel much. Just an immense pressure in the back of his head and then all the air was sucked out of him. The final moment he was lying at the side of the road looking into the rabbit’s eye.

Artwork by the author