It's A Dog's Life

This story is based on when i tried to watch the Great British Bake Off. 😂 Seeing as it's nearing Christmas i thought- lets make it a bit more 'Christmassy.' Hope you like it! 

It's a Dog's Life

Snow is beginning to gather on the window ledge and the screaming of the wind rushes down the chimney making the flames quiver. This heat is stifling. I’m panting like a hippo running in a marathon. I stretch out on the chair bearing my bottom to the world as a gust of wind whirls and whistles outside.

Lifting my weary head to look through the doorway, I see Mummy entering with a large rectangular box on legs. Instantly, I leap off the armchair to have a good look at it to see if it’s friendly. What is it? Mummy props it up against the wall and clicks a button on top of the mysterious box. I jump back in fright as blurry pictures appear on the wall opposite. I realise it’s the Great British Bake Off Christmas Special. The picture comes into focus and I stare in awe.

Specky, Wriggly and Bunnet Boy enter the room gripping mugs of cocoa in their hands. Wriggly sits next to Mummy but then she darts to me… and then she’s on the ground. Finally, she resumes her seat by Mummy and only grudgingly stops wriggling about! Once everyone is snuggled on the couch, Mummy presses the play button and moving images begin to play on the wall. A beautiful Victoria Sponge cake with tempting frosting piped neatly around the edges dazzles my eyes. Transfixed, I watch as more cakes are brought to the front of the screen. I stand on the red couch and try to eat the goodies that have magically glued themselves to the wall. I screw up my face in disgust. Those cakes taste like plaster and emulsion. No wonder the beardy man tasting it doesn’t seem too happy.

Mummy pauses the images and walks into the kitchen. Great! My dinner at last! But she doesn’t get my dinner. Instead, she pulls out a tray of mince pies. I let out a low growl. How could she!? I’m watching food I can’t eat, and now she’s making food I can’t eat! Even worse, I haven’t had a reply from the letter I sent the other day – pleading to be allowed to eat human food. Something must be done…

They’re all getting up. Now’s my chance! A big drink of water and a shake of my beard – the trap has been set. All is going to plan. They are still heating up custard to pour over the pies. I should probably lie under the table now to avoid suspicion.  Specky, Wriggly and Bunnet Boy take their mince pies into the living room. Urgh! It didn’t work. Maybe Mummy will fall for the trap. When she’s finished taking her bowl through, Wriggly darts up again towards the bathroom shouting, “Don’t start without me!” Perfect! I lie in wait. As she comes skipping back through the kitchen, she slips on the tiled floor that I cleverly dripped water onto and smacks her head on a sharp corner of the wall, falling to the ground. Everyone rushes towards her. Oh oh! I peer at her head, slightly concerned. Her hair is stained red with blood. I didn’t mean to hurt Wriggly. Just cause a distraction. Maybe I went a bit too far… Oh well, I’m sure she’ll be fine. Wriggly often overreacts. At least I can guzzle a pie without anyone noticing.

Wriggly is helped into a chair and is howling her head off. Bunnet Boy stands beside her, mortified. His face is deathly pale and looks like he’s just seen a ghost. Specky’s doing her best to help – holding iced peppers to Wriggly’s head. Although, I don’t understand why she’s decided that now’s the best time for a Harry Potter quiz. In fact, she’s acting as if she’s John Humphreys from Mastermind, insistent that she answers each question that’s fired at her. Ahh yes – classic Specky, always taking her role seriously. Mummy’s reassuring Wriggly and tells Specky to continue quizzing her to try and keep her mind off things – but I think Specky just really wants a quiz. Mummy’s not helping much now. She’s disappeared behind the baby gate upstairs, talking into the rectangular pink thing that she holds to her ear. I must play my part convincingly. I lick Wriggly’s cheek. She fondles my ears lovingly, but really I’m just licking the frozen pepper juice that is now dripping down her face.

Mummy is coming downstairs, wearing her waterproof. A walk!? A bit late, but okay!  She pushes me down as I try and jump up on her. Now she’s up close I can see that she’s carrying Wriggly’s jacket too. Something isn’t right. Mummy walks into the kitchen and over to Wriggly who is helped into the jacket. I follow. What is going on? Mummy and Wriggly walk to the door. A few peppers fall out of the bag and I bound forward like a small child presented with a bag of sweets. I gobble it up but spit them out quickly. The juice tastes much nicer than the real thing. Eww! I hear the front door slam. All is silent. The tension is broken by Bunnet Boy who begins to cry. In an attempt to make him feel better, Specky puts Alvin and the Chipmunks on the wall and they cuddle on the couch.

Unsurprisingly, Bunnet Boy asks for a chocolate. I sniff. There he is asking for sweets and I haven’t even had my dinner yet! I must take action.

Slipping into the kitchen, whilst Bunnet Boy and Specky lounge on the couch, I spot my goal. The mince pies are sitting unsupervised on the counter where Mummy left them.  I jump up and my front two paws land neatly on the surface. Quick as a flash, I gobble every last morsal. Nom nom nom! On my way out, I see that the cupboard that hides away the rubbish is slightly ajar. I tiptoe over and push my nose into the bin, but before I can scoff many dustbin delights, I’m caught red nosed and interrogated for a whole two minutes by Specky. “What did you do with the mince pies? Why were you in the bin?” before I was pushed unceremoniously into the infamous Baby Dan Jail. Was it really worth it? Yes. I think so. I lick the tasty remains of the dustbin delights out of my beard.

I awaken with a start. Looking around, it’s clear that I’m still imprisoned in Baby Dan Jail. How long have I been in here? I let out a piercing whine. “Oh Basil!” shouts Specky from the living room. She had evidently forgotten me. “Are you a sorry boy?” I stick out my tongue to show her I am sorry. Apparently, she understands because she unlocks the gate, and at this point Mummy and Wriggly return. I jump for joy. Mummy! Wriggly! The pepper juice has solidified, leaving a sticky residue on Wriggly’s hair and face. It tastes even better a few hours later! I give Mummy a lick too, just in case she has any juice on her, but no luck, so instead I continue to lick Wriggly. My tongue never gets bored.

Hang on. This is Christmas Eve. Don’t they put food out tonight for the big fat guy in the red suit?

Based on a true story.

Basil's starving!

 By Matthew 

 

Dear Daddy, Mummy, Molly, Lily and Matthew,

 

I am writing for one reason only. I, a cuddly Airedale terrier, am writing this letter because you do not let me eat human food. Would you like to be locked out of your own kitchen? Do you lock me out on purpose? Well that’s what’s happening to ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I personally think you should let me eat the scraps off your plate because your food is delicious. You get to eat cracking carrots, terrific turkey, marvellous mash and finally beautiful beef. You also get lovely chicken and tatties while I get minging stuff. Honestly, my food tastes like brains and rotting guts but you are the royal people of the house and yours is 9 ZILLION times better than mine!!  

 

It would be brilliant if I could sit at the table with my own knife and fork. If you let me I would be more polite than Queen Elizabark. I wouldn’t slurp, or burp, or make doggy noises, or jump on the table like a MAD CHICKEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

So please, please, please, please let me share your terrific breakfast, lunch, and dinner!!!

 

Yours sincerely,

 

Basil

Poppy

Poppy

P lacidly growing from the churned up mud, in Flanders Field you grew a sea

O f beautiful red admirals each pattern unique lulling Dorothy gently to sleep… your scarlet

P etals as thin as paper and

P erfume as sweet as Jasmine, Poppy,

Y ou are exquisite

Persuasive Letter To Mum

 

Dear Mummy,

Do you remember the song that you sing to me in the mornings? Mummy’s best doggy? Cuddles on the couch, licks in the kitchen, and walks in the forest. Aren’t we the best of pals? Although I know you love me, you have currently banned me from upstairs. Why? This has to change. Four cosy beds, and furry duvets - upstairs has it all, but you just take it for granted. Why can’t I enjoy these these comforts too?

Do you ever think about me when your upstairs? Your adorable Airedale? Or how I hate that gate? Every time you leave me downstairs, I hear the gentle turning of pages as you snuggle in bed reading a book. Every time I stare through the gate, up the spiralling staircase a pang of sadness wells up inside me. I wish I could be up there, enjoying myself, comforting you at sad parts of the book and laughing with you at happy parts. If I were allowed upstairs, we could have had even more adventures with a new venue and I wouldn’t be as lonely at night.

Often you call me big bad Baz, but have I ever done anything to deserve that nickname? Well, apart from occasionally stealing bacon from the grill or having a nibble at Granny’s sandwich, or chasing a horse up the hill… But why am I never called terrifically tidy terrier? See those those wee humans that run about all over the house? If I was allowed, I could tidy their rooms for them! No more hoovering needed! Why are you so determined to keep me from enjoying the fun of upstairs with you? If you were to relent on this, then your bedrooms would never be cleaner! I could make those skirting boards shine! Licky Mc’Lickerson to the rescue!

If the wee humans woke up in the night, I could act like a nanny, gently soothing them back to sleep by licking their faces and ears. This would mean you wouldn’t have to get up during the night, which I’m sure would be a delight! Extra hours of sleep!

All I ask is that I be allowed to enjoy the delights of upstairs. Why is it so hard to let your favourite doggy upstairs to snuggle in bed with everyone? Please, this is all I ask, just to be allowed to visit your paradise. I know you are bit allergic to me, so if if it would help, I wouldn’t even have to stay in your room when you start sneezing!

Please think about it,

Lots of licks,

Basil Xxx    

 Nettle

L.M Owens

After reading a book called The Lost Words, a book about acrostic poems I decided to write my own acrostic poem. It is about a common garden pest the Nettle. I'm sure most people will have been stung by a nettle at least once in their lifetime. Hope you enjoy!😀

 

N	ettle, you’re a sly green devil lurking at roadsides amongst the overgrown verge for an unsuspecting victim to cross your path
E	very innocent that hops past receives the same treatment. Red hot spikes prick the casualty, causing stinging irritation a
T	ingling sensation. Mass infuriation
T	otal condemnation! Yet you stand tall as white bumps rise.
L	aughing in the long grass, beneath large bushes, growing from the
E	arth along the forest path. But take note Nettle, one of these days I’ll make you into soup!

The Journey

A couple of week ago, while out riding my bike, I noticed a fish jumping out of the Euchan River, trying to get up the waterfall that blocked its path. I stopped and watched its attempts. More fish attempted the jumps. My brother and I could not believe our eyes and started cheering them all on. I investigated about the fish and discovered the incredible journey that Atlantic Salmon make every year. Hope you enjoy! 😁

Watercolour Atlantic salmon by Matthew, age 7

The Journey

Hello!  I’m Finn, an Atlantic salmon. I’m also one of the few that made it to the ocean. I had to face perilous waterfalls, hungry birds and slimy seals (honestly have you seen how fat those guys are?!) Anyway, less of the past more of the future! The waters around Greenland are abundant with food that tastes terrific! My few years in the ocean are coming to an end. Soon I will have to journey back to my birthplace- the beauteous Euchan river that joins the Nith at Sanquhar. Quite a few salmon seem wary of the journey ahead. Personally, I don’t see what they’re fussing about. The return home seems quite exciting to me so I’m not going to brood over it. Onwards and upwards!

Well that’s me. I’m on my way to the river I was born in. I’m so excited. The school of fish I am traveling with suddenly stop. I’m just about to ask my neighbour why we have halted in our convoy when I see something utterly terrible.

Ghastly gulls gather above the grey ocean hoping to catch a well-fed Atlantic Salmon. A trawler must be…

Suddenly, I’m writhing and squirming in a trawlerman’s net, along with some other unfortunate companions. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll be a fisherman’s dinner! With a loud rip, the bottom of the net tears on a jagged rock cutting a large hole in the netting.  I dart out and hurry to catch up with the rest of my school, who managed to avoid capture.

I’ve just entered the Solway Firth. The noisy chatter of salmon is deafening. We swim as close to the mouth of the Nith as we dare until the mix of salt and freshwater taste begins to taste odd and stings my gills. Maybe I’d better stay here for a while until I’m used to this brackish water.

Hundreds of salmon crowd deep in the seabed. In this estuary there are lot of predators. Occasionally, a brave salmon will swim up to the surface to check if the coast is clear- and they won’t come back down. The tide is going out. This is my last chance. I should go now… My heartbeat quickens. There is only one thing for it. I must go, I must go, I must go. I close my eyes and will luck to be on my side, as I propel myself upwards. Shouts of “Come back!” and “Don’t try it!” ring in my ears. But I ignore them. Cormorants sit in a nearby tree drying their wings out in the sun. I swim slowly past them and, thankfully, they do not stir. I am approaching the mouth of the Nith. I can see weaker creatures being pulled back into the Solway Firth, as the ferocity of the current overpowers them.  Jings crivens, help ma fishes, I better brace myself. I’ve just entered the most dangerous part of my journey known to salmon kind.

I have been fighting the current for hours. I’m so tired, yet I know if I stop, I will be washed back down to the Solway by the rushing water. I think I’m about halfway there. I’m almost at Dumfries so it shouldn’t be too long. That’s me at the Whitesands now. The water rushes down, pulling me with it! I am stuck at a literal brick wall. My journey is at an end. Or so I think. I see a couple of salmon swim over to the right-hand side of the Nith. I follow. A ladder! I jump up each step. When I reach the top, I look around, there was almost no current at all! This was going to be easy. But as I swam further up the Nith the current returned. I’m starting to get hungry. Glancing to my left, I see a fly floating on the surface. Don’t snap at the fly, don’t make a sound, don’t draw attention to yourself.  My comrade does just that. He swallows the fly and is dragged out of the water. He doesn’t come back down. Horrified, I scurry on.

I’ve just swam into the Euchan river. The current is fierce and I’m having to battle my way upstream. My nostrils tell me I’m nearing home. Just round this cor… Oh no.

This cannot be happening. A gigantic waterfall blocks my path. Once again, my nostrils direct me. My destination is beyond the top of that waterfall. How in the name of all the salmon in the sea, am I supposed to get up there? It’s about ten metres tall! I ponder in the deep pool at the bottom of the cascade of water. If I don’t get up this mountain, my whole journey will be in vain. I must overcome the problem. I push up from the ground and shoot up in the air, tail and fins flapping madly. I fall, battered, back into the river. A few pied wagtails twitter mockingly at my failed attempts. “I’d like to see you try.” I snap at them. They fly up over the waterfall proving that they actually can. Cursing at them under my breath, I continue to jump out the water. Frustrated, I swim back down the bottom of the pool. I groan. Why couldn’t I do it!? I’ve tried for so long and so hard yet all I gain is bumps and bruises! Though it feels as if I’ll never make it, I try again. Maybe I just had to remember that it was my optimism that got me this far. With these thoughts in my head, I leap and land, slightly painfully, at the top of the waterfall. I’ve done it!  Though I am exhausted, and my body is bleeding and aching, I speed on, practically jumping for joy. Until I stop, I shake with all different types of emotions. I am home.

This is probably the last time you will ever hear of me. Thank you, you’ve all been great listeners. Wish your fishy friend luck with his spawning! If you ever find yourself swimming upstream, in the face of difficulty, remember nothing is impossible.

Burning desire

 I decided to write a piece about The Great fire of London because this week was its anniversary. I noticed that people seemed to enjoy when I personified clothes so I thought, what if I personified a fire?  This is the finished result. Enjoy! 😄

Picture painted by Matthew, age 7

Burning Desire

The year was 1666 and I was on a mission. I was created in a small bakery, down in Pudding Lane on the 2^nd September. It was the early hours of Sunday morning and the baker had gone to bed, forgetting to sweep out his oven. I floated from the embers and landed in a crack in the wall, smouldering away in the house’s timber. With great ease, I set the whole wall alight and soon I had the bottom floor of the Farryner’s bakery on fire. The family did not realise until a small son crept down the stairs. “Fire!” he yelled and raced back up to his parents. I taunted behind him, nipping athis skinny ankles. For my amusement, I permitted the rest of them to scramble from their beds, before forcing them to jump out of a window and on to a neighbour’s roof. A young maid was afraid of heights and was unwilling to jump from the window. This stupid woman was my first victim. I watched with satisfaction as she ran, screaming, round the room, engulfed in my flames. A callous smile spread across my face as I gave a crackle of maniacal laughter. This was going to be fun.

Where shall I terrorise next? I rampaged up the street and an unexpected ally joined my forces. The wind knew where his loyalty’s lay. Together we set structures alight and chased people up and down the street. Eventually, every building in Pudding Lane was caught in our magnificent blaze. I was growing larger and stronger by the minute, and so was my ego. If I could cause MASS destruction in an hour, just think what I would be capable of over the course of a few days! Why stop at one street when I could destroy a whole city! This was my chance to go down in history as the Great Fire of London.

With the help of my friend, the wind, I swept across the city, burning everything in my path. It was almost as if the fools wanted me to burn their beautiful home. Their houses were wooden and built so closely together that they could shake hands with a neighbour from an upstairs window. Brilliant fire precautions, I thought sarcastically. As I approached the Thames, I saw a line of men covered in ash and passing leather buckets to each other. I mocked their feeble attempts to control me. As I loomed in front of them, their bravery faltered, and they scattered - tails between their legs.

I raged on mercilessly for the next couple of days, recreating the city in my own terrible fashion. Having already destroyed St. Paul’s Cathedral, my new goal was The Tower of London. But ash blackened people all around me were now blowing up wooden buildings with gunpowder. Suddenly, a strange paralysis took hold and I found it increasingly difficult to move. I was losing energy. What was happening?

The tower was in my sights, but I knew that I couldn’t spread any further. I fell into an exhausted heap.  Without wood to burn, I was beginning to fade.  My mission had not been completed but maybe I had inspired others to follow in my footsteps.

The Storm

This story was written on the week that Storm Ellen swooped across the Atlantic Ocean, hitting Great Britain and Ireland.

The Storm

I lay in a crumpled heap. Forgotten and lost. The other sad souls that had been piled on top of me groaned and moaned, unable to escape. Pungent smells of sweat and grime were putrid and haunting. I dreamt of my old, happy life. I was so comfortable and fresh in my lush home. But all of that was over now. Blackness surrounded me – a heavy blanket of mourning.

As I became accustomed to the darkness, there was a sudden flash of brightest white sheet lightning. Without warning I was bundled into another dark pit of doom. Ominous thunder began to rumble from all sides of the enclosure. The horrific thunder continued until the weather abruptly turned savage. The wind was a puppeteer and we were its marionettes.

Torrential rain beat down upon us and the wind swept us round and round, until I felt faint. Water was creeping up and drenching everyone in reach. We were crammed in like sardines, constantly spinning and banging into each other. Suddenly, the relentless torrent of abuse ceased. Had this torture ended? As hope leaked into me, I sighed with relief. But it was short lived. Once again, we were spun round but in the opposite direction!

Over the next half an hour we faced tempestuous rapids that would suddenly subside, only to return moments later with a vengeance. I’d even stopped glancing up in the hope of being rescued. Would I survive this madness? Just when I thought I could take no more, we were hurtled round, faster than ever as a tsunami of waves engulfed us, reaching a crescendo! By then we were just a blur of colour. After many painful minutes of the sickly sensation, we stopped. Hopefully for good. I had lost my bearings. As I was hanging upside down, disorientated and nauseous, a distant voice shouted, “Mum! The washing machine’s finished!”

Home Sweet Home

Sanquhar has its own wee pattern- the most popular being the Duke. The Duke pattern was named after the Duke of Buccleuch who gave a large order for gloves in the 1880`s. As usual I wrote a piece about Sanquhar/Crawick's history. Hope you enjoy!😀

Home Sweet Home

The light shone through the moth-eaten net curtains that hadn’t been opened in decades. The red paint was peeling from the ancient door, revealing the brown wood beneath. Despite being old and musty, the charity shop was welcoming. The little lady that ran the shop, Miss Miller, always greeted customers with a broad smile and a twinkle in her eye. Every day she listened to her old-fashioned record player that sang ragtime music as she swayed and hummed to the melody. Sometimes when no one was looking, my fingers would tap to the beat as well!

The china dolls were always picked first. I don’t know why. They may look beautiful and glossy but on the inside they’re just dull and hollow. Did you know, they never even looked at me. Well to be fair, nobody did.

All the antiques that lived around me seemed completely void of personality. The games were glum and the dolls, drastically dull. Why were they always picked instead of me? My days were terribly lonely – thank goodness for the jazzy ragtime music! I lived with my brother, Leftie, amongst the other gloves. Driving, woolly, leather – all types. Leftie would rather sit in the box and curl up in a ball, whilst I preferred attempting to cheer all the other gloves up or thinking up new escape plans, that usually failed. One time I actually tried catapulting myself off the shelf, only to be sat back in my box after being trod on by a large foot. Ouch!

When he’d finally managed to unravel himself for more than two minutes, Leftie told me an interesting story about our great great great grandparents from 1880 and the origins of our name. They too began their lives in the quaint village of Sanquhar but had climbed the social echelons, living in the grandeur of Drumlanrig Castle. Apparently they also began on an ordinary shelf until the high and mighty Duke of Buccleuch gave a large order for gloves and they were chosen! The knitter was so privileged that we would forever be known as the Duke pattern.

I could not believe that our ancestors were aristocrats and here we were in a charity shop, our lovely navy and cream pattern dusty and faded. As we had been a donation to the charity a long time ago and, seemingly ordinary gloves, no one knew of our regal past and didn’t spare us a second glance.  If only someone would realise we weren’t just any old gloves. We were special.

Leftie didn’t feel the need to try and draw attention to himself. He was so full of inherited self-importance and firmly believed it was best to save his energy until he would be used again. But I couldn’t wait. I literally had to take my life into my own hands. Silently, I crept through the shop in the dead of night. Fingertipping my way past the snoozing dolls and rocking horse, I eventually hoisted myself up onto the countertop next to the till and waited for the shop to re-open.

It was a cold and icy morning. Miss Miller had her trusty record player softly playing an old favourite of hers, Tiger Rag, as the tinkle of the bell sounded. A young girl stepped over the threshold accompanied by her mother. She browsed the shelves as her mother waited at the door. As she came closer to me, I noticed the familiar navy pattern on her scarf. My goodness, it was one of us! The Duke pattern draped elegantly around her shoulders. A pang of hope filled me from my palm to the tips of my fingers. She turned to pick up a china doll. Of course, I thought miserably, but she hesitated and put it down quickly. She’d noticed me and made a bee line straight for the counter! Her eyes gleamed with happiness as she picked me up. Miss Miller smiled and ushered her over to the box in which Leftie sat. The girl closed her dainty hand over him and beamed down at us. She took us joyfully back towards the counter and admired us in the mirror. Miss Miller gently took us out of the girl’s hands and put us in a colourful paper bag. The light that shone through looked like dancing rainbows.

We sat inside, shaking in anticipation. Leftie crouched beside me, equally excited and nervous. None of us spoke. The journey in the paper bag was long and bumpy. I began to wonder whether it would ever end. As we came to a stop, a hole formed above our heads and the small hand reached in, snatching Leftie and I right off our fingers! Sunlight, glorious sunlight dazzled my drugget. As I became accustomed to the brightness, I saw the little girl with long dark curls and a beaming pink face once again. Her startlingly blue eyes gazed down at her new Duke patterned gloves. We were somewhere that we could call home at last.

THE END

Flight of the Kites

Watching birds is great fun. When I first moved from Hamilton to Crawick, seeing Buzzards fly by your window was a great deal. And then the graceful kite family moved in. Cool! 😮😁 But no matter where I am, crows always seem to be a nuisance to someone!

Flight of the Kites

by L.M. Owens

Deep in the isolation of the Holm wood stood a grand nest built at the canopy of the trees. Far up in her newly found home sat a mother red Kite. She slept on her two eggs keeping them warm and protecting them from harm. The forest was not, however, resting. Each blossoming tree was alive with twittering birds, each rock was slapped in turn by the ferocity of the Crawick Water. The mother kite, by name Raksha, was deeply asleep and only stirred as the large, beady eyed male swooped down beside her with a dead mouse clutched in his beak.

Two feathers had been plucked clean from Mel’s left wing. He glowered up at the sky where a murder of crows cackled triumphantly in the distant treetops. With only days to go, mother and father kite anxiously awaited the arrival of their offspring. “Should we have started our family from this abandoned crow’s nest?” Raksha kept asking herself.

Days later, Mel, the hulking great father, was preparing to hunt when Raksha felt movement around her tail feathers. She glanced down at her talons and gasped with delight. The once motionless eggs had begun to crack. By the next day, two scruffy, bleary eyed chicks were hopping around the nest. For the next few weeks, Raksha tolerated the constant demands of the new-borns’ while Mel single handedly defended the territory.

Soon their sandy white feathers had turned to glossy brown as the chicks began to learn the Law of the Forest:

“This is the law of the forest

As old and as wise as the tree

The kite that follows will prosper

But the kite that breaks it must leave”

Dest and Lolo, the newly named chicks, sat around their mother, listening intently to stories of their ancestors and the dangers they overcame. Lolo mostly liked to prance around the nest showing off his newly acquired tail feathers whilst chatting and listening whereas Dest was different. He would sit in silence, listening carefully under the protection of his mother’s wing. Although Dest was the oldest, Lolo believed that he was the more confident.

“And man,” she repressed a shudder “man can make fire erupt from his hands!” exclaimed Raksha. “What do you mean mummy?” asked Lolo. “Sometimes,” she continued in no more than a whisper, “men bring big metal fingers and point them at us! There is a crash like thunder and,” she closed her eyes, “it kills you in an instant.” Their eyes bulged in awe and terror. “Now tell us about the crows whispered Dest. “They swoop down out of nowhere and attack.” Raksha told them. “Never children, pick a fight with a crow. Their brains are more expanded than ours. They can learn the tricks of men!” The kites gasped. “They pop the lids off feeding cans that hang off trees in men’s gardens and indulge themselves with rich nuts meant for smaller incapable birds. Even Mr. Grey, the heron that fears none but man is wary of the antics of the crows. Every creature is mistrustful of them. Men, although I do not know why, shake their fists in anger at them.” “But how do we recognise them?” asked Lolo. “Their glossy black wings and body is noticeable from a mile away and you will hear their deep caw echoing around the Holm.

“But why would the crows want to attack us?” Dest asked, as he cuddled further into his mother. “I think that the crows believe that the Holm Woods belong to them and their ancestors, so they’re determined to drive us out.” she replied softly. “Now children,” changing the subject abruptly, “I do see that the sun is setting and I want you sleeping before nightfall.” But the chicks’ dreams were troubled by visions of metal fingers and murderous crows…

Although the chicks were now beginning to turn chestnut coloured, it was another week or so until they looked anything like their parents. Lolo woke up as the small family were napping in the nest. He looked out over the sunny landscape. “Mummy?”, he noticed curiously, “I have never seen a man with big black eyes before.” “What?” She murmured sleepily. “There is a man.” he sighed. “Man!?” Raksha yelped, “Quickly! Stay behind me!” She peeked out over the nest at the yellowing grass in the field beyond. “Yes, I see what you mean…” she said warily. “Stay close little ones it could still be dangerous.” She scrutinized the intruder before laughing. “Do not fear, they are only binoculars! They help men to see as well as us!” They all crouched low in the nest, until the man had gone.

One sunny dawn morning, Dest and Lolo stretched out their growing legs and felt the urge to beat their strong wings. Of course, Lolo wanted to make this a competition and he flew about a foot in the air, mocking Dest who failed to move far from the nest. Raksha congratulated them, “Keep trying! It won’t be too long now until you fledge!” They all knew what fledge meant. It was the day that you would leave the nest and learn to fly. “The key to flying is to keep your wings held slightly forward, angled and gently arched.” she told her eager children. “Why do we have to wait so long?” grumbled Lolo, but only so that Dest could hear.

In fact, it was not a long wait at all. Soon the chicks were flapping and squawking all over the nest. Until one day Raksha said to them, “My children, it is time I taught you to fly.” and she set about giving the youngsters lessons about the art of flight.

Meanwhile, as Mel was gliding back to the nest with a dead mouse clutched in his beak, he was side-tracked by a crow. It cawed maliciously to him, “Your chicks, Kite, don’t look all that strong. It would be terrible if something happened to them!” The Crow flew off squawking, triumphant that it had disturbed his rival.

Back at the nest, Raksha was ushering her chicks over the edge. Lolo, determined to show off, jumped first. Seconds passed, until… Whoosh! He had succeeded! Immediately, Dest wanted to avoid further teasing so hopped to the nearest branch, squeezed his eyes tight shut and jumped. But as he took the leap of faith, a cascade of ebony feathers smashed into him. Beaks and feet found their mark, leaving deep gashes in the kite’s back. As soon as Raksha saw the battle forming below her, she instinctively soared down to save her chicks. She pushed a crow off Dest who was struggling to fight back but the three kites were no match for the constant attacks from the murder of crows. Just as the aggressors had almost pinned the kites to the ground, Dest had an idea. He called out,

“This is the law of the forest!

As old and as wise as the tree!

The kite that follows will prosper!

But the Kite that breaks it must leave!”

Trees began to sway and whistling could be heard all around the Crawick landscape. Instantaneously, a soar of kites appeared from all corners of the compass. Dest shrieked in astonishment as he noticed his father leading the attack and managing to take down two crows by himself. He had never even seen another kite before and certainly had no idea that this many roosted nearby. As the cavalry joined the battle, the crows were slowly but surely pushed back, beyond the border of the Holm Wood. 

After all the crows had disappeared, Mel, Raksha and Dest landed on a nearby branch and whistled their appreciation to the departing kites. Raksha’s left wing was bruised and bloody, as was Dest’s. But where was Lolo? They searched the surrounding treetops for what seemed like hours until Dest gave a horrified squawk and flew down to his brother’s motionless body that lay on the forest floor. Lolo’s tongue was lolling out of his mouth and his talons stuck up in a jaunty angle. “Lolo!” cried Dest as a tear trickled down his plumage.

  

For once, the Holm Woods fell silent, only the creaking of the trees could be heard.  To Dest’s utter surprise, Lolo opened one eye timidly, “Are they away yet?” he mouthed. “For goodness sake your alive! And yes, don’t worry they’re away little brother.” laughed Dest. “Maybe you’re not so weak after all big brother.” smiled Lolo kindly. And the two juveniles swooped off together into the sunset.

Diary entry of a 1st Class passenger

After reading Titanic Detective Agency by Lindsay Littleson https://lindsaylittleson.co.uk/book/the-titanic-detective-agency/, I was inspired to write my own Titanic themed diary entry. Unlike Lindsay`s, this was not based on real passengers. 

April 10^th, 1912

Dear Diary,

Mother has requested I dress in my finery (and of course I didn’t refuse!) My fair ringlets fell down to my waist. I admired them in my dressing table mirror as a cool breeze swept through my open window. Miss Altson (my governess) had insisted I wear a light smattering of lip-gloss and you don’t refuse Miss Altson. Anyway, I kind of wanted to. I went to get ready. My satin blue dress with frilly turquoise bows, red patent shoes, white tights, new fur lined coat and velvet lilac hair bows seemed suitable for this occasion. Dancing down the spiral staircase, I saw Miss Altson, mummy, daddy, and Tojo (my Pomeranian) waiting at the door for me. Miss Altson frowned, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she questioned. “Pardon?” I replied. “Your gloves Miss Lillian,” she sighed. “Ah!” I pulled on the satin gloves with lace frills and turned to mummy. “Ready?” I asked. “Yes darling.” she replied.

Running towards the automobile, I rattled the door trying to open it. It was locked. “Open up!” I yelled. “Yes ma’am.” A butler came and unlocked the car. The boot and carriages of my entourage were jam packed, but thankfully I had plenty of room inside. Porters had been loading the car all day and now, I was leaving my country mansion with it’s old antiques and crawling ivy up the outside wall forever. I was going to America as a first-class passenger on the biggest ship in the world and I wasn’t coming back! We drove out of the avenue steadily but not before I glanced back at my house. Tojo who was sitting on my lap, licked my face lovingly. His golden fur was rubbing my cheek tentatively. At least one hour or so later, though it felt like an age, we arrived at Southampton docks. The massive outline of Titanic loomed in front of me. I slipped Tojo’s lead and collar over his muzzle as Manuel (my personal butler) opened the door with a graceful bow. Hopping out of the car whilst holding Tojo proved difficult but I managed anyhow. “Ola mademoiselle!? Como estas? “Err?...” Manuel is still trying in vain to speak English, though unfortunately he could only say, “Where is a book you little swine?” Of course, he does not understand what he is saying. “Hello.” I said uncertainly. He smiled and gave another low bow before departing to unload the luggage.

The busy docks were packed with excited people hustling and bustling and saying their farewells. I followed mummy, daddy and Miss Altson with Tojo trotting happily by my side. As we reached the top of the gangway, I looked down over the railing. My car was being loaded on to the ship, it’s red paint gleaming in the sunlight. But another thing caught my gaze. People in scruffy clothes were being searched for something, their matted hair being pulled roughly aside. “Daddy?” I said, “Who are they?” I asked. “Steerage passengers having their health checks no doubt.” came the reply. “How uncivilised.” I muttered, silently scolding them.

We went inside and were met by none other than Captain Smith himself! He spoke to daddy before turning to me. “Would you like a little tour?” he asked. “Yes please!” He showed us a lot of dull things at first and, sensing my lack of enjoyment, he decided to show us the grand staircase. I rubbed my gloved hand across the lavishly polished oak balustrade that was shining grandly. The red carpeted floor beneath my feet made me feel like my favourite film star, Dorothy Gibson who is also supposed to be travelling on Titanic. We were impressed by the enormous gymnasium with high windows and exercise machines (just like daddy’s one at home!) Seeing the parlour suite with a nursery just for me has, so far, been my upmost favourite.

My bed is a giant four poster queen sized, with velvet pink curtains, and a silk quilt. Though you may not believe it, there is about a hundred toys! There is soft dolls with gently smiling faces and a big golden rocking horse stationed in the middle of the room. His saddle is bright red. I love them all. A delicate stained-glass window stands grandly in the corner, sending a crescendo of colours flying everywhere. I wish I could write more but I fear mummy’s calling and I don’t want to be badly in trouble by ignoring her!

Write later! 

The Soldier's Pool

 I like to take inspiration from the people and places that I know, so once again, I have written a historical fiction piece about a local place that I love - the 'Soldier's Pool', near Crawick.

(photo by S. Hastie)

The Soldier’s Pool

The winter sun shone through my window. This morning was most definitely the time for a winter walk in the beautiful Crawick landscape. I pulled my hat firmly down over my head and stepped outside. Miraculously overnight, the once apple green ground had turned to pearl white. Still moving tentatively over the snowy ground, I began to descend Miller’s Brae towards the river. Beautiful icicles hung from the cliff that overlooked the Crawick water, ready to impale anyone who may get in their way.

Snowdrops bloomed everywhere I looked, like little angels in a bed of white feathers.

Before me was the copse where I would usually turn back home. Not today. Taking a deep breath, I willed myself through the small thicket of trees to find out what was on the other side. I stopped. Before me was a frozen pool covered by a perfect sheet of ice. Like a glass ballroom floor, it was willing me to dance. 


Lights, cameras, action! I was the star of Dancing on Ice, pirouetting from one side to the other, finishing off my routine to emanating applause crackling from the trees on my left and right. Beneath my feet…


Suddenly I was plummeting into the freezing water. The cold spread through my body seizing up muscles I never knew I had. And in an instant, strong hands gripped my sides hauling me back up into the fresh morning air.


I was gently placed upon the frozen ground immobilized by fear. A dishevelled man loomed into sight and with a heavy French accent said, “Bravo! Your dancing es manifique!” “Thanks.” I replied hoarsely. He was wearing jodhpurs and buckled shoes with only a scruffy shirt to cover his top. “You saved my life! Thank you.” “Oui, no problem, I’m here to serve!” he cried heartily as he turned his back. “I must go.” he said softly. He was on the verge of leaving when I shouted, “Wait! I don’t even know your name. Where do you live?” “Jean Baptiste, mademoiselle. I rest at the stables.” was the faint reply, as he continued walking away. I trudged home, soaked to the skin.


The next day I set out once again, this time avoiding the deadly pool, and headed for the old stables. As I knocked the door an old man came stumbling from the back of the house. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the Frenchman who lives here? He’s about 30.” I enquired. “No Frenchman here lassie. Not since the prisoners of war back in the days of the French Revolution. You’re a couple centuries late!”


As I walked away, I caught sight of a jagged stone erected in the ground. I moved closer. Words were engraved. It read, ‘In memory of Navy Lieutenant J.B Arnaud, age 27 years. Prisoner Of War on parole at Sanquhar. Erected by his companions in arms and fellow prisoners. He expired in the arms of friendship, 9^th November 1812.’ Scooping up a bundle of snowdrops, I laid them carefully at the base. “Thank you Jean Baptiste”, I whispered. 

Me laying snowdrops at the real grave of POW J.B. Arnaud, Sanquhar

Shot!

This short story is based around my home village of Crawick in Upper Nithsdale in Dumfriesshire, Scotland. The picture below shows a busy mill village and how the place may have looked during the 18th Century - the time period in which the story is set, and the so called Crawick witches ran a mock around the local area! I hope you enjoy reading this. 

Shot

Robert Stitt was looking forward to unwinding after a long shift at the Crawick Mill. Enjoying the peace and quiet of the warm summer’s evening, he nipped into his cottage to collect his musket, and walked towards the Holm Wood. Above him was a cloudless periwinkle, blue sky. As he stepped under the dense canopy of trees, he admired a large red kite flying above, also scanning the ground. “You know the Holm Woods as well as I, my friend.” he said respectfully.



Waiting for his prey, a raven cawed ominously from the drystone dyke at the entrance to the Holm. Being the engine driver at the Mill, meant he had an uncanny sense of hearing and sharp eyesight. Unlike most men, he could hear the rustle of a bush a hundred yards away.



He rammed the paper cartridge down the musket and lay in the long grass, motionless. But after forty-five minutes, he began to lose faith. Suddenly, a large athletic hare streaked out of a bush in front of him and darted towards another. He aimed and fired. Bullseye! He sauntered casually through the puff of white smoke and putrid smell of sulphur to the spot where the dead hare lay. But it had disappeared.



He searched high and low, without success. Dispirited, he turned to leave when, blinking in disbelief, he noticed a woman with heavily lidded eyes and curly black hair emerge from the thorn bush the hare had been shot in. Nannie, the infamous witch of Crawick, was pulling pieces of shot from her side with her taloned hands. Unfazed, she inspected one of the bloody ball-bearings. Robert just stood there, unsure what to do. Eventually, she turned and looked straight at him. She raised her dark eyebrows and tutted accusingly. A crooked finger waggled in his direction. She glowered for a minute more before turning around, pocketing the shots and walking defiantly towards the river.



Robert ran home, terrified. He flung open the back door and was about to shout to his wife, when he realised it would be pointless as it was Friday and she would be down at the river washing clothes. Trying to calm himself down, he went into the kitchen to smoke his pipe. But as Robert entered the lamplit room, he saw a sight that made the hairs on the back of his neck curl. Roughly fifty bloodstained shots lay on the wood carved table.