Gold Writer

13

Through the rain, Jake glimpsed a teensy building

with a solitary light hanging outside. He began to run,

comforted by thoughts of warmth, and company. As

he reached the premises, he saw a small sign, “The

Last Inn.” Jake pushed the thick wooden door open,

and was greeted with hops-filled air, the sound of the

incomprehensible Scots’ tongue, and the unexpected,

homey scent of molten butter and sugar. He inhaled

deeply. He knew that smell from his childhood, and

could almost taste his Nan’s shortbread on his tongue.

“G’on shut the damn door!”

Jake quickly closed the door behind him and sat on a

stool at the bar, wiping the rain off his glasses. See-

ing his drenched hair and clothes, the woman behind

the bar said, “Och aye, misst the bus, did ye? Must be

pishin’ oot - yer fair drookit. A pint’ll dae ye guid, loon.”

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Gold Writer

Rachael Craigmyle

Where on earth is the bus? Sitting underneath an ebony

sky, there was nothing around Jake save the bench

he was perched upon. He felt engulfed by the mist

and soaked beyond bones. He wound his scarf higher,

trying his best to create a barrier against the raindrops

that dripped relentlessly down his neck. Screw it; I’ll walk.

Ten minutes later, Jake was convinced he might die

alone on this barren country road. How had not one

single vehicle passed him? Come to Scotland, they said.

Discover your roots, they said. His family told him it didn’t

rain that much here in summer. It seemed as though

July didn’t qualify as summer in Scotland.

The Last Inn