Light of Hope – Part 2.

Yesterday as part of a Tell the Story Challenge, I wrote this story below:

I received some lovely feedback about it and a request that I write some more, so here goes:


Not long after starting my new school something happened to me, that is quite common apparently, but completely took me by surprise.

Growing up in my tight-knit little community on my island with the lighthouse, I couldn’t recall having even one day’s illness. A slight cold was all I’d had. The first term of school is often called the ‘sick term’ because putting all those children together usually leads to an outbreak of some disease or other.

I remember feeling a bit tired in class that day. I was slowly adjusting to the fact that I wasn’t at home, but staying in ‘digs’ in a strange town. Mrs McAllister was my landlady and had let out her attic room for me. She used to cook light meals like scotch broth and every morning would make me a bowl of steaming porridge. I’d grown up with my morning oats but Mrs McAllister made hers a bit differently. On the island, we had a lot of sheep, and we used their milk to make the porridge. Mrs McAllister made hers with water. It was the colour of wallpaper paste and I’m sure just as tasty, but it was hot and it filled my belly. I remember sitting in the classroom, wishing someone would open the window and watching the teacher parade up and down the room, slapping his hand with his ruler. Then, all of a sudden, the room went black.

When I came too, I was lying in my bed in the little attic room. I was sweaty and I ached all over, but particularly around my face and neck.

“Now, Dear, Don’t fret, The doctor brought you back from school and we managed to get you into bed.” Mrs McAllister said from the doorway.

“I’ve brought you a bit of broth. The doctor said you had mumps. I can’t come too near, as I’ve not had it myself and I have two wee bairns to look after. I’ll just leave the broth here.”

She placed the bowl down on the small table by my bed and then ran out of the door as if the germs were chasing her.

I remember laying there, feeling all swollen and puffy and staring out the window to catch a glimpse of the light from home.

I was supposed to be a big boy, going to big school, but right then, I wanted more than anything to be home. To have my Mother to look after me. To cuddle me in her strong Baker’s arms, the smell of the bakery on her clothes. To this day, the smells of a bakery is my favourite perfume.

I admit it, I cried. I lay in that lonely attic and sobbed my heart out. I must have managed to doze off because when I heard the door creaking open I awoke with a start.

The room was completely dark, except the light that came flooding in from the door, the silhouette of a figure standing there.

Then the light from the Lighthouse briefly provided a glimpse. It was my Mother, standing there, wrapped up in a shawl and carrying a basket on her arm.

“There, there, my wee Dougie. Rest now” as she said it, she gently pushed me back into bed and pulled the covers up around me. Her cool hand rested on my forehead and seemed to miraculously take some the pain away.

I don’t know how she knew I needed her, but I was so relieved to see her.

I remember thinking, she must love me so very much to come all that way from the island in the middle of the night.

It took a few days before my puffy neck returned to normal but she nursed me through and stayed with me until I was well enough to go back to school.

It’s strange looking back, what the brain chooses to remember and what it forgets. I can’t remember much from those early days but I’ll never forget the feeling of my Mother’s healing touch.

Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 13/February/2019










Tell the Story Challenge – Light of Hope

Teresa, The Haunted Wordsmith has tagged me in this tell the story challenge with this great picture. See her post below and check out the great story she wrote called The Shadow Man:


Here is my fictional story:

I grew up on a rocky island on the west coast of Scotland. There were a few people eking out a living from that poor soil. A few crofters farming and keeping those scrawny tough sheep that were the only kind that could survive the winter storms. We had a little community that grew up around the lighthouse. My grandfather was the lighthouse keeper and my Mother was the baker. Twelve families survived on the island, we even had a small school that I went to with seven other children. The school teacher was a crotchety old lady by the name of Mrs MacReady her husband was the minister of the small church or Kirk.

Growing up there had been tough but I remember we were a close-knit community and there was plenty of love.

Time swept by and before I knew it, I was too old to attend the small community school. Three of us were now old enough to go to big school. Myself, Rory Campbell and Alexander MacLeod. I remember the day when we had to board the ferry that took us across the water to the town. It was too long a journey to make daily. We would be living in ‘digs’ until the end of the term. It would be three whole months before we would see our families again. I stood there on the dockside shivering, not from the cold but petrified with fear. I had never been ‘off island’ before. People did make the crossing to buy things but I had never had any interest in leaving my home.

“Cheer up Lad” Grandfather called out to me. “If ever you get homesick, just look out to sea and you’ll see the light from my lighthouse and you’ll know all is well.”

I used to stare out of the window in that attic bedroom and see the light sweep past. It became the light of hope to me. I knew everything was safe at home and one day I’ll see it again.


Thanks, Teresa, for tagging me:


I am going to tag the following people:

Fiddler Pie

🤗February 12, 2019: Quote of The day & My Thoughts

No don’t feel under any pressure if you don’t want to take part, but if you fancy it, the challenge is to write a story or poem based on the picture I give you. Then you need to nominate three people and give them a picture to inspire, thus the Tell the story challenge keeps going.

Here is the picture:


Have Fun

FOWC with Fandango — Petrified

Twittering Tales – A Valentines Day Surprise – A Tale in 280 Characters

photo by Skeeze on


He’d crafted them perfectly; no one could tell the difference.

Carefully he packaged and sent them to the people on his list, ticking them off, placing a leaflet in each box conveying the appropriate sentiment.

“I hope you accept this token of my esteem”.

Let the poisoning begin!

[279 characters]


This story was written for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales Challenge:

Twittering Tales #123 – 12 February 2019

Tell the Story – The Windfalls

“What’s in the bundle?” the man asked the ragamuffin as he scampered out of the woods with a red spotted handkerchief held over his shoulder on the end of a pole.

“Nuffin'” said the young scamp.

“Well, if’s it Nothing, then why not let me see?” came the man’s response.

Little Charley had seen men like him before, looking all Ritzy in their fancy clothes, but still with a mind to take from those with less swank. He quickly jumped down and through the man’s open legs and ran off up the street.

“Here, come back.” Cried the man. He tried to give chase but the boy was too fast for him. Who’d have thought that a scrawny boy, with no meat on his bones and less strength than a fly, could move so fast?

Little Charley ran down a muddy alleyway between two cottages, away from the main street. Tucked behind the main row of houses was a wooden hovel. It was where his old grandmother lived. She had been poorly and so he had gone to get her a present.

He ran through the door and plonked himself down on the wooden stool in front of the fire.

In her usual chair in the corner, his old grandmother sat puffing at her tobacco pipe. The air reeked with the pungent smell, but it gave her comfort. She was curmudgeonly old baggage, but he loved her.

“What’s that you got there Charley?” His grandmother asked, coughing and spluttering but taking a puff from her pipe despite her cough.

“It’s a present for you, Gran. It’s some of the last windfall apples. I thought they would make you feel better.”

“Ah, you’re a good boy, Charley. A good boy.”

FOWC with Fandango — Ritzy


I was tagged in this Tell the Story Challenge by BereavedSingleDad, see the post below:

Tell the Story Challenge

Thank you for tagging me, I do enjoy these challenges.


So here is a picture for anyone who would like to have a go at this Tell the Story Challenge: Write a story or poem based on this:



So this is open to anyone who reads this, likes the picture and wants to have a go. Have fun. 🙂


50 Word Thursday – An Innocent Street


This was written for the 50 word Thursday’s challenge that I host in collaboration with Teresa, The Haunted Wordsmith. If you’d like to take part, click on the link below:

I have also included the following word prompts:

cry, dark, silver bullet

FOWC with Fandango — Whitewash


It all looked so innocent now. Just a pretty lane on a quiet street. The houses neatly painted with whitewash.

However, it did not always look this way.

Back in March, this street used to be the most dangerous in London, possibly in the whole world.

Dark and evil things used to stalk there at night.

The very air itself was filled with a toxic fume or sulphur and decay that came from the depths of hell.

A group of us decided to take part in an exorcism. Father Patrick assured us he knew the rites and we took him at his word.

Together we held hands and chanted while the Father threw salt around us.

If I had known then what I know now, I wouldn’t have done it.

While we chanted, the lamp suddenly went out and a dark shape jumped out of the shadows.

I let out a cry into the night. There was a shot and a silver bullet hit me in the leg. The shadows descended upon us, and when they lifted, not a soul remained except me.

Through April, May and into June there was no word of John, Ross, Giles and the others.


Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 06/February/2019

Tell the Story – The Magic had Gone.

SanaH of the blog Pause for Nature has tagged me in this Tell the Story picture challenge, which I believe was created initially by The Eclectic Contrarian.

Thank you SanaH. See her post here:


The Megaphone blasted out tinny tunes and the occasional announcement about children who had become detached from their parents. Even when not being used, the megaphones emitted an annoying hum. It was a disappointment, to say the least.

They had saved up a lot of money to take the trip across the country, across several states, in order to treat their little daughter to a taste of fantasy and a world of possibilities.

They came across a building covered in fake greenery and labelled ‘Snow White Cottage‘.

You could clearly see the overwrite. Underneath the words ‘Boiler room’ could still be seen.

Fairyland was not the way she’d remembered it when her parents had taken her their twenty years before.

The Magic had gone.


Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 05/February/2019

FOWC with Fandango — Megaphone


Thank you SanaH, for nominating me for this challenge.

So who shall I nominate?

Melanie B Cee of Sparks from a combustible Mind,

Belle of Wandering Belle



Rugby843 of the blog Bag Lady.

MLMM Sunday Writing Prompt-Its all in the title

As always these nominations come with a built-in get out clause. If you don’t fancy taking part, then that’s fine. It’s all just a bit of fun, no pressure.

So here is the picture I am challenging you with:


Have fun. 🙂

The possibilities in not knowing.

“She ran away to mend her wounds, not knowing what awaited.”

This story was written for Froggy Crochet’s Writing Challenge. If you want to take part click on the link below:


She’d been told not to go into the woods, but Cathy hadn’t listened.

She was running away from the torment of her home life. What could the woods be full of compared to what she had left behind? What others feared, to her was just a world of possibilities.

She ran away to mend her wounds, not knowing what awaited.

There was a strange hum in the trees. She paused for breath and heard the snap of a twig behind her.

She turned quickly, but there was nothing there.

She made her way through the woods, following the humming sound. Gradually it grew louder until she heard it clearly; music coming from beyond a line of conifers.

As she pushed through the pine trees, she gaped at the sight that met her eyes.

More than a dozen painted wooden caravans were arranged in a circle around the secluded glade and a host of people in bright coloured clothing danced around a central fire, to the tune of several flutes.

The flutes stopped when they saw here. The people turned and some of the children screamed and ran into their homes on wheels.

An elderly man wearing a red scarf tied around his head and a knee long bottle-green coat over purple breeches came up to her.

“Are ye friend or foe, Lass?” he asked. She could barely understand, his strange archaic speech, his musical accent but she answered “Friend.”

The people stopped their fleeing. Several of the ladies smiled at her. They all wore fringed shawls around their shoulders in purples, yellows, of every colour.

One of the women, with flowing locks of red hair, came up and put her arm around her shoulders.

As the music began again, and the children re-emerged from their wagons, she felt an upwelling of emotion. They had welcomed her with open arms.

The End.

Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 05/February/2019







Twittering Tales – Mountain Block – A tale in 280 characters.

Photo by Pexels at

They say a book starts with one word. Just as a journey of a thousand miles starts with one step. However nice the words they don’t make it so.

He stared at the nearly blank page. On this journey, there was a mountain blocking his path. He prayed for inspiration. Then it came.

[277 characters]


This story was written for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales Challenge:

Twittering Tales #122 – 5 February 2019 – It starts with one word…


Multiple word prompt story – Red Hair.


As he sat at the kitchen table, drinking the hot chocolate that his mother had made him, he thought about what his friends had said.

It had started out as just a normal game of catch but then they’d started calling him names. He was born with bright red hair. No one else in his family had red hair. His mother’s hair was light brown and his father’s had been blonde before it had fallen out.

They had played together many times but today Gavin had pointed at his hair and shouted “Carrots!” Then the others joined in.

He ran home crying. His mother had just sat him down and made him some hot chocolate.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she sat down next to her little boy.

“So, what upset you? Tell Mummy all about it” She coaxed.

He told her about them calling him names.

“You don’t think I’m ugly because I’ve got red hair, do you?”

“No, I don’t and I don’t think they do either, they just latched on to that because they wanted to feel superior to you. The best thing you can do is to go out there and let them see it doesn’t bother you. When they realise you aren’t upset, they’ll stop it soon enough.”

“But why am I the only boy with red hair?”

“There are plenty of redheads in the world, you just haven’t seen them and neither have they. Do you think God created us with just brown hair? He has a far more eclectic mind than that. People have lots of different coloured hair, some as black as soot and others a pale as moonlight. All different, and yet also the same.”

“What colour hair do you admire the most?”

“Your Father had fair hair, the colour of a wheat-field ready for harvesting when I first knew him. That’s probably my favourite. Anyway, I can’t sit here jabbering on all morning. You finished your Chocolate?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Well go out and play dear. Go on, Skedaddle.”


Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 04/February/2019

FOWC with Fandango — Eclectic


A Musical Gimmick.

In Hindsight he wished he hadn’t bought it.

He only went into the shop to buy a present for his wife. The saleswoman had looked like such a nice lady, but she had pounced on him like a tiger at a tea party as if he was covered in whipped cream.

He emerged with a piano stool made of fine mahogany and richly upholstered in red velvet brocade. Carrying it down the narrow cobblestoned streets was tricky. He almost fell twice.

It was a bargain apparently. Just twenty pounds and it also came with a large pile of piano music from Haydn through Beethoven to Shostakovich. He realised he’d been taken in by the gimmick. How was he going to explain it to his wife?

They didn’t even own a piano.


Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 03/February/2019

FOWC with Fandango — Hindsight