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Jacobites by Name

Hugh shook himself awake. He was stiff with cold and his damp plaid afforded no comfort from the biting wind fresh off the Moray Firth. Looking down in the gloom, he saw another tartan-clad figure lying prone with ghastly dark streaks down his chalky face. Hugh gave the body a nudge with his waterlogged brogue. An empty whisky jar rolled over the pebbles.

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Jenny's Well

I didn’t have room. Not with my sandwiches, fruit gums, bag of Salt ‘N' Shake and bottle of orange squash.

The new jersey was all thick and scratchy, knitted with sickly green Arran wool. Night after night Mam’s needles kept clicking. Every now and then, she would measure it against my back. She sewed it up, the chunky needle flying back and forth, back and forth as she watched Coronation Street.

Sunbeams were bouncing off the pavements. It would weigh me down.

But nobody argued with Mam.

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