The Stirling University’s Creative Writing Society has published their Spring 2016 anthology, which contains 100 pages of stories, poems and songs.
This year’s anthology offered writers various photographs of Stirling’s key locations, and they could produce a piece of work based on the literal and inspirational connotations of the pictures. The anthology contains fictional work by society members and showcases a variety of genres, themes and styles.
The society will be hosting a stall in the Atrium on Tuesday the 8th of March from 10am-3pm, and will be selling the anthology to students, staff and members of the public.
If you would like to preview some of the work within the anthology, then here are some extracts from three entries.
The Forgotton Hero
By James Sizer
“Sometimes they would see him. Very rarely, in fact so rarely that when they did nobody took the experience seriously anyway and those that believed their eyes were labelled insane or delusional. King George III happened upon him when he decided to pay a visit; his claim was labelled another bout of madness. Before that James VI, on his way to be crowned King of England, was visited by him and reminded of his duty to the northern nation; he would never speak of the incident, attributing it to an angel, though angels didn’t go around head to toe in armour. As recently as 1995, Mel Gibson found a large number of his personal Braveheart memorabilia defaced, and to this day he is silently certain of hearing a creepy voice whilst alone in bed, telling him to get his facts straight and to learn what a bridge is.
He would frequently travel. Into cities sometimes, but far more often into the countryside; less people there and his nature meant the majority would never spot him. He would walk away from the roads at night, among the sheep that trotted along terrain once occupied by far more people than it was now.”
Wheelie Bin Soup
By Kirsty Grant
“Nicked, frae below a strummin street licht, The muckle great bin schrinks low to the grund flashes of blue and orange snap on its rusty armour. Half foo it rumbles tae the fit o Randolf crescent where the pavement sinks beneath brae, bumpin ower boulders ,beer cans and deed bracken. Joyriding. It flips its lid to the moon. And the moon slides behind a bramble Bush, and the bush slips behind a tree that sucks air from the shadows . Released…”
A Night on the Bridge
By Matthew Glassford
“Fog hung over the river; low, heavy, sticky fog, with clinging tendrils twining themselves over and under the bridge.
To the east, the Wallace Monument rose out of the miasma, piercing the sky with its claw-like spires. To the west, the Castle loomed over the town, a vast block of stone which cast a dark shadow over the cobbled streets.
Nancy stood on the bridge, looking at the misty reflection of the moon on the water below, only visible when the fog thinned momentarily. It was a half-moon tonight; the perfect balance between light and dark. She pulled her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, shivering a little in the damp air.
He was late tonight. She had just begun to consider giving up and heading home when the silence was broken by soft footsteps echoing slightly in the night air as a dark figure crossed the cobbled bridge toward Nancy. The mist twisted and distorted this figure, turning it into a nightmarish shadow. Nancy felt a thrill of fear tingle up her spine.
As the figure draw nearer, Nancy could see it in more detail; it was a smartly dressed, elderly gentleman, with a tall hat drawn down over his face and a heavy cloak thrown over his shoulders.”
By Caroline Malcolm