Hello! I'm Kirsty Logan, a writer of novels and short stories. My books are The Gracekeepers, A Portable Shelter, and The Rental Heart & Other Fairytales.

Thievery: William Faulkner’s Typewriter

Thievery: William Faulkner’s Typewriter

This month I’m doing a mentoring special to celebrate all the talented and diverse writers I’ve been lucky enough to work with through WoMentoring. Today we have Isla Telford with a Faulkner-inspired story.

 

The Story:

‘Well, now, Mr Stevenson sir, you have a beautiful machine here. You are a lucky man, I hope you know that. How in the hell do you manage to take it with you on tour? These things are beasts.’

Mr Stevenson sniffed and shrugged. ‘I need it so I bring it. Can’t write this album on anything else.’ He sat down cross legged on the edge of the cleared circle, elbows on bare knees, chin resting on his hands. ‘So, you get much work?’

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Thievery: Via Dolorosa

SK_Blog PicThis month I’m doing a mentoring special to celebrate all the talented and diverse writers I’ve been lucky enough to work with through WoMentoring. Today we have one of my favourite Scottish-folklore-inspired writer, Suzy Kelly.

 

The Story:

Six hours into her 80th birthday, and six hours before she died, Sister Mary Frances experienced her first orgasm. She awoke in the half-light, confused and open-mouthed, and with a thundering heart. After a few moments, her breathing still laboured and her muscles still tensed. Even her breasts betrayed her as they ached in time with the pulsing of her pelvic floor.

On becoming more aware, she looked up to the small wooden figure judging her from the Cross above her bed. The carved Saviour, splayed open in his own agony, sent down waves of shame. For the Lord knew hers was not the sanctioned ecstasy of Bernini’s Saint Teresa. This was something more carnal; even though it had come to her unbidden and against her will.

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Thievery: Kick the Can and Rhododendron Perfume

Rebecca SmithThis month I’m doing a mentoring special to celebrate all the talented and diverse writers I’ve been lucky enough to work with through WoMentoring. Today we have the talented and generally delightful Rebecca Smith.

 

The Story:

First life lesson. When we were little we used to crush rhododendron flowers, add water and hey presto, rhody perfume. Roses worked better of course, but roses were precious. During the summer the gardens on the estate were open to the public so we would stand on a corner of the path and wait for the slow gait of old couples. They thought my brother and I were the sweetest things they had ever seen with our shorts, muddy white t-shirts and tiny perfume bottles. We sold them for a couple of pence, collecting the coins in an old jar. Mum laughed when we showed her our profits. But she said we couldn’t expand the business.  The flowers weren’t ours. Our shop floor didn’t belong to us. And, frankly, we were coercing people to buy. Running a business is tricky.

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Thievery: The Crumbling Stars

Rebecca HarrisonThis month I’m doing a mentoring special to celebrate all the talented and diverse writers I’ve been lucky enough to work with through WoMentoring. Today we have an astrology-inspired elegy from Rebecca Harrison.

The Story:

Every night, we wrote down the names of the stars which had gone. So we could watch the skies, Nora brushed the star ash from our window – our parents still called it snow. Sunset was ‘curtain close’ and then we weren’t meant to look out. So after we’d gone to bed, we lay awake listening for sleep sounds. The old space books were under our beds, but when we held them up to the window their pages had stopped matching the skies.

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Thievery: Red, White, and Silver

Holly GarrowThis month I’m doing a mentoring special to celebrate all the talented and diverse writers I’ve been lucky enough to work with through WoMentoring. Today we have a gorgeous, gory fairytale from Holly Garrow.

The Story:

There were still stitches on her chest, black thorns twisting over her heart. She ran a finger over the crude threads as she looked at the thin, snowy dress waiting for her and hoped that the stitches wouldn’t show beneath it.
Bring me her heart, her stepmother had said.
And so they had.
Whatever beat in her chest now was different. She could feel it, hear it, all the time; each thump and pulse, the constant thud.
She slipped into the dress and swept her hair over her shoulder, falling like an ink-spill down her chest.
Bring me her heart.
She wondered what her stepmother had done with it. Was it now entombed in a trinket box, drained and dried and dead? Had she tossed it straight into the fire and scattered the ashes in the snow? She couldn’t shake the image of her stepmother sitting at the table, red hands and bloodied chin, sinking her lovely white teeth into her heart.
The doctor opened the door with a single sharp knock. He held out a length of red chiffon and a cream lace mask. She took them without a word and turned to the cracked, rusted mirror in the corner. She tied the silk ribbons of the mask, adjusting it around her dark eyes and draped the veil over her head, turning the world crimson.

 

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