Creative Writing, Short Stories, Writing

Heirloom – #writephoto

For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt

Another bit of fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.

Here Sue’s photo for this week.



By Scott Bailey © 2018


She had run from the stately home – from ghosts and strange blind men – both alive and dead.

But not far. She had very quickly got hold of herself. Now she sat outside a provincial coffee shop sipping the best she’d tasted for some time.

As she drunk she stared at the place in the distance. Turrets rising from the darkness like the beginning of some gothic horror movie.

Only now she knew the ghosts were real.

How she knew that she was not sure. It went against everything she had ever believed, against the grain of her fundamental seeking for truths.

But she did not doubt what she had seen.

So, that is how he found her, sipping coffee, staring at his home.

Vaguely, she wondered at that. Had she stumbled straight into his favourite place? Had he had her followed? Again, she noted that he seemed to need no guide. He must be familiar with this place as well.

He sat across the table from her and waited.

“Who are they,” she asked eventually.

He smiled wryly and lifted one shoulder and a strange shrug.

“That is the question. One there has been no answer to. All I can tell you is that through all the stories, down through the years – beyond history – they are there – along with the sword. With Northblood.”

“Stories? Do you have them all?”

“All, that are known of,” he replied. “There are gaps in time, and as I said, they go beyond written history.”

Again, for no apparent reason, she believed him.

“Will you tell me them?”

“I will,” he nodded. He signalled to a waiter and ordered himself a coffee. Then he resumed.

“But if you are seeking truths, stories will not suffice. You must take more, you must take responsibility.”

She cocked her head at that.

“What do you mean?”

“It is time Northblood was held by new hands.”

“You want me to have the sword?”

He nodded, then added more quietly.

“But there is a cost.”


Creative Writing, Poetry, Self Publishing, Writing


By Scott Bailey © 2013

I make cars
I always have
As did my father.

Prestige cars.
The most famous in the world
Made with pride.

Made with precision.
Made to last.
To shine and glide!

Every working day.
All the working hours.
My trusty hands create.

I may be steeped in habit
Tradition and old ways
But I trust in my own fate.

I support my family.
I support the plant.
And I support the land.

I pay my way my dues
while on my shoulders weighs
the burden that I support.

After all these years of toil
All my many dues.
Imagine my surprise, my boss.
I have given more than you!

In response to the daily prompt Famous

#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday

Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing


By Scott Bailey © 2013

A single mote
of stardust
sparkles bright
in endless black
No goal,
no direction
for time
that feels
Cold, cold

And then
Attracted to another
Bright shining mote
Joined together
Bound in twisting dance
round and round
and down
What seems forever
never apart

The other comes
with more attachments
gathering around
A family, a clan
a get together that has no end
a bouncy, rowdy party
as things heat up

And the happening attracts more
and the numbers swell
the dances speed and the steps
multiply with complexity
The place is hotting up
as events coalesce

Then the point of no return
This is the place to be
the single mote has pulled
more that could be dreamed
and the crowds rush in and in
and down
the crowds become a crush
And the heat gives rise to new forms of dance
and new energy as the crowds arise

And then the circle is complete
as the fire starts to burn and the lonely mote
is now the heart
of brand new burning star

Image from Pixabay

Image from Pixabay

Originally published in A Spring of Dreams

Creative Writing, Fiction, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing


We have a love/hate relationship with it.

We do not want to be afraid. We want safety and comfort.

Or do we?

Underneath, secretly we crave it. The thrill of fear, the arousal of danger.

So turn off the lights. Open the pages and delve in.

Find the thrill in the words.

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts