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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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!”.
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Ah, at last a serious note.
In our Italian class we were asked to prepare ourselves to discuss the topic, ‘Nel Futuro’ (In the Future). The intention was that we would think and write a piece, to prepare us for a group discussion using the future tense.
I set out to write a jolly poem, or so I thought.
What resulted was this pontifical piece, which flew onto the screen in a great rush.
I must assume that it is a reaction from my psyche to watching and listening to the news of the ‘immigration crisis’ that we are told will swamp us.
As I understand it, the UK is the sixth richest nation on earth, after Germany.
If I was being bombed out of my home in Syria, or starved to death in Africa, would I not strive to get to Europe, to get my family to safety, and give them a fair chance at a future?
You betcha I would! If was strong and brave enough.
And so would you, my friends.
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This is another police tale, set in and around Bearsden.
Some of the elements of this yarn are close to home.
When he was in his final year at High School, our son accepted a lift from a boy in his class.
A policeman appeared at our door to tell my wife the boys had been involved in an accident.
Every parent’s worst nightmare.
Fortunately, although the car was a write-off, both youngsters were merely shaken, not broken.
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This is a story about how the police hierarchy deal with bent coppers while avoiding unsavoury publicity.
It involves some graphic material and you may wish to avoid it for this reason.
If you decided to risk it, I hope you might agree that it has a ring of truth about it.
Or perhaps I am watching different news broadcasts from you?
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