Kirkton Burn_On the way out_154 Juniper Lane_Maryam Francis: Mother to Our Soul
Catalog Guide:
Kirkton Burn
“You’ll never know unless you try,” encouraged Gordon Ramsay, as they watched the silver streaked water bubbling in the moonlight. They were a little way off from the rest of the group, the gurgle of the burn mingling with the distant chatter and laughter. A faint tang of smoke - bonfire, tobacco, and other substances - drifted across in the still air.It was Friday 12 August, 2022、 Kirkton Burn had become a regular weekend gathering place for the group of friends, all in S5 at Thursfield High. Aged 17, they were due to take their Highers the following summer. They had a week of summer holiday...
On the way out
I should have thought twice before subscribing to that health magazine. While I knew it was not a good idea, my desire for a longer life drew me to it. I was inspired after finding an article that commended people for stepping out of their comfort zones to discover happiness. It got me thinking. After pondering for a few days, which turned into weeks, which turned into a whole month, it dawned on me that my life consisted of one big comfort zone, about the size of a Walmart store.Since few people expect to find happiness in a Walmart store and since the article was so well written, I shared i...
154 Juniper Lane
"Thanks a lot," I say to the mailman.He hands me a bill. Trekked all the way to the last house on my dead-end street where I live. Trekked all that way to my house at the end of a dead-end street in a snowstorm, may I add. Just to hand me a bill. Can you imagine?I suppose it's his job, but sometimes, they skip my number. It happens a lot, actually. I don't blame them. Today, I wouldn't have complained. It's the last house on a dead-end street. Would you go all the way to the last house on a dead-end street during a blizzard? Just to hand me a bill?I crash the door shut so the mailman knows I'm...
Maryam Francis: Mother to Our Soul
The show is over and Maryam Francis sits on the floor, legs crossed with animated hand gestures, a pow-wow of actors around her as though they are her apostles. They pass joints and bottles of wine. Her hair is almost an angelic white and unkempt. She blows loose strands out of her face, touches others on the shoulders, nods in agreement, rifles up to her feet occasionally while in the sonic moments of telling a story, and laughs with ease and laughs often. When I introduce myself, she is finishing up an anecdote on her third husband, saying, “I told him, I told him well shit Rupert, I didn’t ...