This is a wee tale based on truth. It has haunted me for almost two decades.
It recounts a long-ago train journey.
It contains a particular swear word which is included because it was used and is necessary to convey what happened.
Some of the dialogue is in a Glasgow dialect, which may make it unintelligible to some readers. Sorry.
The story was written to meet a Writers’ Circus challenge - “The Train”.
Some of you who know me will have heard an oral version.
This is a wee story about three retired men who meet every week in Jacko’s Hut to do and say what they like, free of comments or interruptions from their wives.
One day they look out of the picture window.
Each sees the same object, but they do not agree what it is.
This version thanks to my son Stuart, who made several helpful suggestions.
This is a story about the swallows that visit Craigallian Loch each year. I am a member of the Craigallian Angling Club and regularly fish the Loch from early March to the end of October.
Craigallian Loch is part of the Craigallian Estate owned by Duncan and Jean MacFarlane, kind and generous people who love nature and wild creatures. This story is dedicated to them.
The Loch is a great place to observe wildlife and, being on the West Highland Way which is busy year round with walkers heading to Fort William, I regularly meet people from around the world.
This is another outing for Maisie Kaywood, coming to the rescue of yet another cousin. The story is a response to a recent Writers’ Circus challenge “there’s nothing that can be done about it”.
Recently I saw a young woman in a wheelchair, pushing herself along vigorously. She was alone, making her way to? At the ends of her legs were two white socks revealing that she had no feet.
The first draft of this story wrote itself quickly and was definitely ‘raw’ when presented to the the group. I has benefited greatly from many comments made. Thank you all once more.
Crucial corrections and guidance from my editor Kareth Paterson polished it to its final dull lustre.
This is a story which came from a recent dream. The images were vivid and the meaning of what I was ‘watching’ seemed clear. I wrote the first draft within hours of wakening.
Kareth Paterson my editor made some excellent comments which turned the dream into a story.
The origins of this story may be embedded in my psyche from a very brief friendship with neighbours who had a child like Baby in the story. These lovely people smiled through their tragedy. After a few years they moved away and we heard nothing more of them.
At that time our older son Stuart was toddler and Craig was a babe in arms, both healthy.
Now we have three lovely, healthy grandsons.
How easily we take our good fortune for granted.
This is a glimpse into what might be our future.
It is the story of a determined man who overcomes great odds, suffers great pain, and pursues his dream down through many, many centuries.
It is set in a place called The Nuists, aka The Long Island, aka The Outer Hebrides of Scotland.
It is very difficult to write so many words with one’s tongue in one’s cheek!
At Writers’ Circus we were set the challenge, “Be careful when you tell a lie.”
This tale wrote itself and after comments from the group, here it is.
This is a trio of tales from our family archive.
I am sure that my version of the ‘truth’ of what happened will be disputed.
That, however, is the power of my pen.
This wee tale was written as an assignment for a creative writing class at Strathclyde University.
As a friend who proof read it said, “Ah, the simple lives of country folks!”.
Ah, yes. I know. I know. Men cannot ‘do’ suffering.
Here it is, my tale of woe about a heavy cold, now passing into history, I hope.