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Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Shipwreck – Thirteen Tales

Shipwreck

Explorers – or pillagers? The line is thin on the high seas, in strange exotic lands. Those that operate without fear of consequence soon learn their folly. There are older powers in the world than gunpowder and steel.

Shipwreck

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

The Urban Jungle – Thirteen Tales

The Urban Jungle

The pressures of civilisation conflict with the urge to conserve and record. Someone – something – intervenes from with echoes from the distant past.

The Urban Jungle

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Softly Softly

Softly fear creeps – more chilling than any scream.

Get further under the covers and turn another page – if you dare

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out on Amazon.

paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

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

Fear

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

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Fire and Ice – Thirteen Tales

Fire and Ice

A fiery lover returns from hell with a chilling message. Will the spirit of revolution prevail? Or will it be doused in cold, hard truths?

Fire and Ice

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Playground Laughter – Thirteen Tales

Playground Laughter

A group of youths – exploring freedom and each other – find old fears of school creeping up on them. One is left questioning what he saw – and what he did?

Playground Laughter

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Snuggle in the dark – with a ghostly tale or two

13talescoverc

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is being worked on for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

The Church – Thirteen Tales

The Church

A dare in the dark, bravado against the fears of the night – in the most spooky of settings – was it asking for trouble?

The Church

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Suspense – Thirteen Tales

Suspense

Revenge can be patient. And it can come at the most unexpected time. Old crimes, suppressed and twisted come back to haunt a monster.

Suspense

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

A Ghost Sighting – Thirteen Tales

A Ghost Sighting

A blatant, carefree affair leads to some odd visions and strange happenings in an ancient cottage in the sticks.

A Ghost Sighting

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Mother – Thirteen Tales

Parental echoes and whispers do their dirty work. A man is the sum of their parts.

mother

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

The Valley – Thirteen Tales

The Valley

A woman alone, in a deep dark valley, finds her cherished isolation filled with creeping fears. Yet courage can lead to some surprising twists.

The Valley

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Terminal – Thirteen Tales

Terminal

Who is in the locked hotel room? Who is breaking into the top secret security files? And what is their motivation?

Terminal

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Earl – Thirteen Tales

Earl

A bitter young aristocrat seeks revenge on the spirit that disinherited his father. Not all though is as his young eyes assume.

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

A Ghost Scene – Thirteen Tales

A Ghost Scene

This is a play with a difference. Shakespeare’s ghost scene, the dead Dane, will never seem the same again to this band of oddball actors drawn together by their passion.

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts

By Scott Bailey

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Others are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version is now available for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Cycles⁠ – Thirteen Tales⁠

How will the bravado, bluff and hormone-fulled ignorance of youth hold up against harsh truths, like death? Will this group of friends grow up or repeat the mistakes of youth?

Find out now – read Thirteen Tales (of Ghosts) now.

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Winter is coming and the ghosts

As the nights draw in, settle down in front of the fire, get comfy and enjoy some spooky tales!

13talescoverc

A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

A paperback version os being worked on for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

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

Thirteen Tales – Cycles

Cycles

(Originally published in Thirteen Tales)

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Orange light tried to sparkle off the wet tarmac. Otherwise all was still, even the three figures that lay in the road.

Two were face down by the kerb, the other was splayed out in the middle of the street. Their faces were hidden by motorcycle helmets. Leather jackets and jeans completed their ensemble.

Houses watched over them, silent witnesses. The life behind the pastel curtains was at rest and undisturbed.

A bedraggled wreath sagged at the foot of a lamppost, close by one of the figures. Notes were scattered around it, most of the writing now had run away into the gutter, the thoughts washed away.

The silence intensified, remained heavy over the scene even as the three figures stirred and slowly rose.

They pulled off their crash helmets and shook out the confusion in their heads. As they walked towards the centre point questions rode in their eyes with fear a close pillion.

Their footsteps were silent.

When they met they stared at each other, each looking for answers in the others faces.

Finally one of them broke the silence.

“What happened?”

“We crashed.”

“I know that you pillock! But…” he hesitated, “then what?

The third man spoke, rapping his helmet.

“I knew we shouldn’t have brought these knock off helmets!”

“Oh, shut up! Gary’s had loads of crashes with his!”

“Yeah,” agreed Gary, hesitantly, “but off road.”

“So we probably just bumped our heads and have lost our memories or something.”

“Well my head don’t feel like it’s got any lumps on it.”

“Tony, you wouldn’t notice if I hit you over the head with a sledge hammer.”

“Not after the amount we drunk at the party!” said Gary. The two of them laughed and clapped each other on the shoulders.

“So?” persisted Tony.

“So, what?”

“So what happened?”

Gary shook his head and wandered over to the pile of soggy wreaths. He bent down and read one of the labels.

“Shit!”

“What?” asked Tony.

“Look at this! This wreath is for the ‘Lads from the Horses’”.

“Some of our gang died!” Ray whispered.

Then Gary shook his head again and pointed a trembling finger at another card, the words almost washed away.

But still readable. Ray read it aloud.

“In loving memory of my Son, Anthony White. Died on his bike, doing what he loved and with his friends. Ride on!”

None of them moved. They stared at the flowers, at the words draining from the cards.

Then a gust of wind caught one of the cards, flicked it in the air and blew it through Tony.

They all screamed and stepped back from one another.

Then they resumed their still, shocked silence. They stared in horror at each other as the chill seeped into their minds.

“Us,” Ray’s voice trembled, “we’re dead.”

“We’re ghosts?” Gary’s voice was as frail as his expression. There was another long silence.

Then suddenly Tony stood up and straightened his shoulders.

“Cool,” he said. “We’re ghosts!”

The other two stared at him with surprise. Then they looked at each other. They seemed to be trying to make a decision. Then, at some subtle signal, they made it. They went along with his bravado.

They punched the air in defiance.

“We’re dead!”

“Right!” said Gary. “Who are we going to haunt first?”

“Hey,” said Tony, “I wonder if we can walk through walls?” He had a sly look on his
face.

“Why?” said Ray, scenting a plan.

“We can head over to Julia Davis’ house and slip inside her bedroom.”

“Yes,” said Gary, making obscene gestures with his arm, “while she slips into something more comfortable!”

“Like nothing,” grinned Ray.

They arrived. It was as simple as that. They had not travelled, they just appeared there. In that almost sacred place that many in their college had secretly wanted to visit. In some cases not so secretly.

She was there! They could hardly believe it. Before their very eyes their wildest and most perverted dreams were coming true. She began to undress.

It wasn’t a strip or erotic,she did it in a matter of fact way, but they didn’t care. They stood slack jawed as when, finally naked, she stretched her body before them and flexed her toned limbs.

“Bloody hell!” said Gary.

“Shh!” Tony silenced him, while keeping his eyes on Julia as she slipped beneath the sheets.

“Why?” said Gary, “she can’t hear us. Look, watch!”

He bent down close to her ear.

“Julia,” he whispered, “you have got a lovely pair of knockers!” He giggled and tried to stroke her hair.

His hand went straight through her head.

He yelled in fright and jumped back.

“Bloody hell!”

The other two laughed. He looked indignantly at them.

“It caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

He looked down sadly at Julia.

“Pity we can’t touch though.”

“Gary, you really are a pervert aren’t you?” sniggered Ray.

“Hey, look at this,” said Tony. He was peering at patches of ice on the window.

“So,” shrugged Gary. “It’s cold outside. So what?”

“There’s no heating in here,” he nodded back inside the room. “But we don’t feel
cold.”

They considered this.

“So, we don’t feel the cold. Or hot when it’s hot,” said Ray. He shrugged. “That’s
cool.”

“It also means,” added Gary with a leer in his eye, “that when she gets out of bed she
will be cold.”

The other two laughed, getting his implication. They huddled down next to Julia’s bed waiting.

Half an hour later they realised just how boring watching somebody sleep could be.

“Sod this!” Ray finally snapped. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where?” shrugged Gary.

“I know!” said Tony, “let’s spirit ourselves over to the Headmaster’s house and see
if the rumours about him and Mrs. King are true.”

They appeared in the front room of Mr. Waller, the headmaster of their old school, where he was having dinner with the aforementioned Mrs. King, also one of their old teachers.

The three friends fell into fits of laughter and clapped each other on the backs in
congratulations.

“Wait until we spread this about!” laughed Tony.

Ray gave him a sour look.

“Who the hell we going to tell?”

This dampened their spirits a little but with the determination of youth and ignorance in the face of fear they forged on with their intentions.

They watched as the couple spent the meal in small talk about subjects that were beyond the three of them. Then the teachers retired to the sofa with their drinks.

The boys rubbed their hand in gleeful anticipation.

The Headmaster put on some soft music and the conversation continued. Mrs. King consumed some more spirits.

After about an hour the friends were pacing the room.

“Come on! Snog her!” urged Gary.

“Old farts have probably forgotten what to do!” said Tony.

“Well I am not waiting around to see if they remember,” said Ray. “Let’s go to
Willy’s.”

The others shrugged and nodded.

They appeared in the middle of the dance floor and immediately made their way to their more customary place by the bar.

Out of habit they tried to order drinks, then cursed the loss of another pleasure.

“Hey look! There’s Melissa!” said Gary. He shouted after her but she did not turn. The
music was loud but she would not have heard him anyway. Nobody would have heard him.

They watched the dancing and flirting in brooding silence, observing the fun they could no longer be a part of. Then they quit. They decided to go to the graveyard, after all it was where ghosts were supposed to hang out.

The graveyard was packed! In the pre-dawn air, wispy, screaming figures wandered in misery. The three of them were jostled and bumped but none of the ghosts spoke to them or responded to them in any other way. These spirits were too wrapped in the rags of their own misery to notice anything else. The air was packed with screams.

“To hell with this!” screamed Gary, “let’s go!”

They gathered to try and decide where to go next when they noticed a familiar face. It was Sam Stiles, the owner of the local corner shop that had burned down a few years ago, Both he and the shop had been a huge loss in their lives.

He sat, head in hands on a gravestone. His own gravestone.

“Sam?” The man looked up at Gary. He looked both miserable and confused.

“It’s us! The Horses! Remember?”

The man squinted at them.

“We used to come in your shop all the time, remember?” said Tony, “you did the best
doughnuts!”

“What are you doing here?” he shook his head and hung it again. He didn’t sound like he really wanted to know.

“We crashed our bikes!” said Tony, with a hint of pride. “Now we’re ghosts. Like you.”

That last part was said with less enthusiasm.

“No,” moaned Sam shaking his head more.

“What’s up?” asked Gary, trying to make light of the scene. “Ain’t you glad to see us?”

Sam looked up with fierce despair now.

“Don’t you get it? You’re stuck! In a cycle – forever! Why do you think these poor souls scream so much.” he waved all around him.

The fear finally got to them, wormed it’s way through all their bravado, pride and ignorance. They looked at each other and began to scream.

At that moment the sun rose. If their scream made a sound it was lost in the rise of the hosts own rising wail.

Then all went black

Orange light tried to sparkle off the wet tarmac. Otherwise all was still, even the three figures that lay in the road.

Two were face down by the kerb, the other was splayed out in the middle of the street. Their faces were hidden by motorcycle helmets. Leather jackets and jeans completed their ensemble.

Houses watched over them, silent witnesses. The life behind the pastel curtains was at rest and undisturbed.

A bedraggled wreath sagged at the foot of a lamppost, close by one of the figures. Notes were scattered around it, most of the writing now had run away into the gutter, the thoughts washed away.

The silence intensified, remained heavy over the scene even as the three figures stirred and slowly rose.

They pulled of their crash helmets and shook out the confusion in the heads. As they walked towards the centre point questions rode in their eyes with fear a close pillion.

Their footsteps were silent.

When they met they stared at each other, each looking for answers in the others faces.

Finally one of them broke the silence.

“Why are we here again?” Gary looked scared.

“I don’t know,” said Tony his voice quivering. “But there must be some explanation.”

“Well I don’t know what it is,” said Gary.

“Thought you were the clever one!” said Tony scathingly. This prompted an argument that escalated into a fight until Ray intervened.

“Look you twats – we’re dead right! Bloody dead! Bloody fighting isn’t going to help
anything.”

This simply aggravated the situation and the fight bloomed again between all three of them.

Then they suddenly found themselves in Julia’s bedroom.

“What the fuck?” said Tony.

“What happened?” said Gary sounding scared still, “I didn’t want to come here.”

“Nor did I,” said Ray and Tony shook is head.

“She’s not even here!” said Gary.

“For Christ’s sake, Gary,” said Ray. “Can’t you think of anything else?”

“Yeah, like figuring out what the hell is going on here,” said Tony.

This started more arguments. They argued and fought and stormed – anything to keep the tears of fear at bay, until they appeared in the Headmaster’s front room.

This brought them up short.

“We’re doing the same as last night,” whispered Tony.

“We’re going around in circles,” said Ray, his voice cracking.

In tears, the three visited the nightclub, then the graveyard. There they stayed, wailing in despair until the sun came up.

Orange light tried to sparkle off the wet tarmac. Otherwise all was still, even the three figures that lay in the road.

Two were face down by the kerb, the other was splayed out in the middle of the street. Their faces were hidden by motorcycle helmets. Leather jackets and jeans completed their ensemble.

Houses watched over them, silent witnesses. The life behind the pastel curtains was at rest and undisturbed….

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Thirteen Tales, Writing

Get into the Halloween mood.

Thirteen Tales of Ghosts. Settle down in the dark and lose yourself in fear….


A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.

Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.

Check it out at Amazon.

Available on Kindle and paperback for those who prefer the feel of the paper while huddling by the fire – on your own – in the dark – with that noise behind you……

Posted in General

If you need a break

If you like narrow boating- I have news for you.

Serenity narrowboat holidays can offer you a narrowboat holiday with a difference. Luxury on board and relaxation from start to finish.

Whether you are a seasoned pro or a beginner they can help you out – offering a full day’s training and if you want it – a skipper for the boat.

So if a relaxing few days on the canals is for you – check them out here

Plus! Use the code SCOTTB10Z to get 10% discount! What are you waiting for? This awaits!

Your relaxation for a weekend awaits!
Posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Work, Writing

Trace

By Scott Bailey © 2016

Water traces curves
Of showered, moist skin, fingers
Follow down to play

Photo by Ron Lach on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 31/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Odd couple

Does a messy home (or office) make you anxious and cranky, or is cleaning something you just do before company comes over?

Posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Work, Writing

Buff

By Scott Bailey © 2017

Buff is a box
An almost fraternity
They try to squeeze you in
At any cost.

Some of us
Obviously won’t fit
So are discarded
Straight away

We are the ones
To watch
We are the ones
That bring the change

We are the ones
To fear

Photo by Mister Mister on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 30/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Five a day

You’ve being exiled to a private island, and your captors will only supply you with five foods. What do you pick?

Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Trading spaces

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Trading spaces

To be another
Would it bring wisdom
Or confusion
Would it destroy
Our sense of selves
Or broaden it
Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Work, Writing

Detonations

By Scott Bailey © 2017

Magical detonations
Stars dying
Dust flying
Seeding us
Not all explosions
Bring death

Photo by Damir Mijailovic on Pexels.com

Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 29/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Trading spaces

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a member of the opposite sex for a day? What do you think life would be like?

Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Tears

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Happy Happy joy joy

Tears of joy 
They warmed my cheeks
When you first smiled at me
My son
These days
Teardrops are frozen 
With a thousand
Fears
Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com
Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Judgement Day

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Judgement Day

Perhaps 
Today's leaders
Don't fear Judgement 
They know
There will be 
No one left to judge
Them

Photo by Viridiana Ortiz on Pexels.com
Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Spiral

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Deja Vu

History repeats
Only more intense
It's not a cycle
It's a spiral
Down to doom
Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Haiku, Poetry, Writing

Memories

By Scott Bailey © 2017

Sunlight pleases him
Teases him with memories
Blotting out real life

Photo by Mathias P.R. Reding on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 28/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Happy happy joy joy

We cry for lots of reasons: sadness, pain, fear . . . and happiness. When was the last time you shed tears of joy?

Posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing

Old

By Scott Bailey © 2017

I am nothing to behold
I am weak and I am old
My mind has given up
My body
Was always a schlup

Now should come the switch
The uplifting twist in the tail
But my mind has given up
And once again I fail

Photo by Craig Dennis on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 27/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Judgment day

If you were to judge your favorite book by its cover, would you still read it?

Posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing

Let It All Out

By Scott Bailey © 2017

This is is age
Of SHOUT first
Ask questions later
Of passion
Without pause
On consequences
With no apparent cause
Denial
Blame
Anger

Just think

Image from Pixabay
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 26/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Déjà vu

Have you ever truly felt déjà vu, the sensation that you’ve already had the experience you’re currently having?

Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

A Dream I have

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Idyllic

A well kept garden
A hidden nook at the edge
By a stream
Overlooking a valley
I sit and write
It is a dream I have
Fishing hut on the River Teviot by Oliver Dixon is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Bruised

By Scott Bailey © 2013

 

He would never see his son again.

Unless…

Unless he went made it through today. Found the strength from somewhere. Put aside his pain.

The trauma his son had suffered had not been at his hands. Logically there was no responsibility for it on his shoulders.

Logic was a weak fence against raw emotion. Emotion that told him that he had failed as a father, that the protection he was supposed to give had been lacking, just that once.

Nobody agreed with him.

That made no difference.

So, he would not compound failure with failure. This was his last chance. He would take it.

He had tried all other avenues. Therapy, prayer, medication. Nothing worked, Yet what it had done was show him the way. It had made clear the path he needed to tread.

So he took a deep breath and rose from his seat. He nodded to the doctor signalling his readiness. The doctor frowned but kept his piece. He opened the door and let him enter his son’s room.

The room was sparse, clinical. His son lay curled on top of the bedsheets, motionless. Awake but unresponsive. He did not look up or acknowledge his father’s entrance.

There was a small bedside table to the left of the bed on which sat a plastic beaker of water. The bed was positioned by the window. Sunlight tried to make an impression on the coldness of the room but failed. The only other furniture was a white chest of drawers and some empty white bookshelves.

Then there were the books.

The books, many many books, that should have rested on the shelves or strewn on the floor. An impressive collection for one so young.

They hung impossibly in the air.

He sighed. He knew what came next. It had all become familiar to him. This time though he did not avoid it. He did not flinch or try to defend himself. This time he smiled at his son.

The books flew at him. As if thrown by immense strength and anger. The hard spines whacked into his flesh like dull nails. Again and again and again. Raining pain upon his body. The books that hit him fell to the ground limply, twitched like dying flies, then were suddenly whisked up and flung again.

There was no let-up.

He could feel his body being pummelled into a bloody bruised mess. But he took it. Stood calmly, raised his arms towards his son and kept smiling. Gave all he had left to him – gave him his unconditional love. Took the punishment not meant for him.

The books whirled faster as the rage grew. Like a tornado of leather and card, they descended on him, pounded him. The pain passed over what was bearable to no longer being processable – so he no longer felt it. He knew he would not last much longer – if this continued his body would fail him. Darkness crept inwards along the edges of his eyes. He kept smiling, locked his legs and stood, arms out.

The whirl became a darkness that was trying to beat his flesh from his bones. He felt like the bones themselves were splintering beneath.

Then it stopped.

Suddenly all the books fell to the floor. Sunlight sprang into the room as if a lock had burst.

His son looked up and held out his arms for his father.

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 25/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Idyllic

What does your ideal community look like? How is it organized, and how is community life structured? What values does the community share?

Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Competition

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Competition


Stats
And myself
These are my competitors
When did the stats
Creep in?

Posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Work, Writing

Catapults and Boiled Sweets

By Scott Bailey © 2017

Catapults and boiled sweets
Sailing boats and jam jars
Watching tadpoles
Playing in the woods
Hunting newts
Swings and roundabouts
Wistful thinking
For the days
That never were

Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 24/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Competition

What activity, task, or game most brings out your competitive streak?

Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Roots

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Local flavour

Here my roots are deep
I am nourished
I can reach out to the world
I don't need to go there

Posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, Self Publishing, Writing

The Tip of the Flame

Tip of the Flame
Image from Pixabay

By Scott Bailey © 2015

The glint in the dark
From the deep of the cave
The thirst that draws
The primitive out

Out from the dark
Out from the safe
Into the harsh
Changes of life

Leaping from age to age
The fire that burns inside
Connecting us over time
To the fires that have passed

Every ancestor who held it
Was a winner in their life
Success upon success
And you are the tip of that peak

Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 23/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Local flavor

Write a piece about a typically “local” experience from where you come from as though it’s an entry in a travel guide.

Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Alone

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Stranded

All alone
Stranger in a strange land
But alive
Next step
Taken in fear?
Or as a chance
To start again
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Posted in Creative Writing, Family, Haiku, Poetry, Writing

Holding Hands

By Scott Bailey © 2016

Tiny, warm, fragile
Fingers tightly holding mine
Treasured memories

Image from Pixabay
Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Scott’s Daily Prompt 22/03/2022

Today’s prompt is. Stranded

You’re stranded in a foreign city for a day with no money and no friends. Where do you go; what do you do?

Posted in Daily Prompt, Poetry, Scotts Daily Prompt, Writing

Swords and Bows and Lore

In response to Scott’s Daily Prompt, Bedtime Stories

Swords and bows
Chivalry and Justice
Robbing to rich
To pay the poor
King’s who were not above the law
And magic
Ancient lore
These were the stories
That filled my head before bed
What happened to those times?
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