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Digital Subscriptions > The Oban Times & Lochaber Times > 22 December 2016 > Festive tales and fine rhymes

Festive tales and fine rhymes

We recently put out a call to our readers asking you to write a short story or a few lines of poetry on a subject that inspired you, and we have been overwhelmed by your response. Argyll certainly is a creative hub and home to a wealth of hidden talent. Here, you can read the first of the submissions, with more next week. Enjoy! A short story winner and a poetry winner will both be chosen following the publication of all short stories and poems


“. . . I finally got my orders.

I’ll be marching through the morning, Marching through the night,

Moving cross the borders

Of My Secret Life.”

In My Secret Life, Leonard Cohen. 2001

The day after:

First the incline takes your breath away. Then the view; with the mighty peaks of Ben Cruachan, Ben Starav, Buchaille Etive Mor, Ben Trilleachan arcing around in a northerly panorama. The last snows of spring clinging on, high up in hitherto hidden crevices. The islands of Mull, Scarba and, on less misty days, Jura, lining up for yet another photo opportunity in the west and south. This time was no different, save for that darned sheep. Body contorted, head contorted, listing to one side; unseeing eyes gazing beyond that carefully manicured 4ft by 2ft piece of obviously missing turf to the bluebell-carpeted corridor, unhindered by passport or reason. Inert.

“You can’t die here!” shouting, vain and selfish.

“You just can’t die here! Not now! Not today!”

She moves. Ever so slightly.

No more than a nervous twitch. But it was enough.

“She’s alive!”

Trying to get her upright. At least she is alive.

“Come on. Let me help you.” Like she understands.

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