#Scottish writer

[theselkiesea]

The Works of Robert Burns

1900's Edition

[dramoor]

"For we are made for love, not for self."

~George MacDonald

(Photo © dramoor 2021)

[hanssloane]

Sometimes I am dizzy with the fear of losing everything – the sea, the sky, all living creatures, forests, estuaries: we trade so much to know the virtual we scarcely register the drift and tug of other bodies

scarcely apprehend

the moment as it happens: shifts of

light

and weather

and the quiet, local forms

of history:

From ‘History’ by John Burnside

[theaskew]

Filth, a novel by Irvine Welsh, 1998. (Jonathan Cape, UK.; W. W. Norton & Company, US)

[lilianeruyters]

Kate Foster || The Maiden

Women’s Prize for Fiction Longlist 2024 Spoiler alert! On the internet The Maiden is lauded as a daring, feminist, debut novel. After having read it, I am not quite sure why it would deserve the epitaphs daring and feminist. To be honest, I felt the novel lacked the quality I would have prescribed to the Women’s Prize for Fiction Longlist. Let me try and explain why I am that harsh on Foster…

[optimisticslytherin]

My brain is actually melting as I write my book. I've had a two week writing block fml

[motherbookerblog]

Book Review - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau by Graeme Macrae Burnet

Book Review – The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau by Graeme Macrae Burnet

⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4 out of 5. When is it possible to say for sure that an author is one of your favourites? How many of their books do you need to have read before you can make that claim? Even after reading His Bloody Project, I was sure that Graeme Macrae Burnet would be in a position to earn that title. Then I read Case Study and it only confirmed how much I enjoy his writing. In order to get the…

[killerpancakeburger]

Bluebeard's wife

SUMMARY: On a visit to your boyfriend, you end up having to deal with a creep on base, but Soap and Ghost's methods of resolving your problem are... far more drastic than yours.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader (and BFF!Ghost)

TAGS: Dark content, Badass!Reader, Established relationship, Dark! a bit yandere! Soap, Dark! a bit yandere! Ghost.

WARNINGS: Canon violence, blood mention, sexual harassment, insults. Soap and Ghost are acting creepy but not towards Reader.

WORDS COUNT: 1,1k words.

A/N: Was thinking about how high the risks of sexual assault are in the military for women + about how much the Task Force could get away with (Soap's mohawk is NOT standard issue lol), but it turned out kinda dark. Not my usual kind of content. This is my first time writting those characters, pls be indulgent.

Your elbow connects with the man’s nose with a satisfying crack.

Immediately he howls, pressing his broken nose with one hand, blood dripping between his fingers.

“FUCK! What the fuck! You broke my nose, you crazy bitch!”

This. This is why you didn’t want to meet the Task Force on base. There was always one brainless fucker who didn’t get the memo that, no, despite having breasts, you weren’t here as a comfort woman.

The private is glaring at you with a hatred as deep as it is sudden, one that screams murder.

The only good side of the situation is, with how loud he’s being, you won’t even need to call for help. Already most of the soldiers nearby are staring at you, muttering among themselves. Not that you can’t beat this guy up on your own, but the military tends to frown upon civilians roughing up their members, you learned it at your expense quite early. On the other hand, soldiers settling accounts between each other was… well, not exactly authorized, but it was way less trouble for you.

He grabs you by the collar, his rage only exacerbated by your composure. The action stains your clothing with his blood. You mentally grimace. You’re no stranger to blood, but the idea of this repulsive individual’s bodily fluids being anywhere on your person is disgusting. 

“Are you listening, you dumb bitch!? I’m gonna fucking kill-”

The venom-filled verbal onslaught stops dead as a hand takes hold of your assailant’s wrist.

“Now, now, at ease, soldier. Ya making a spectacle of yourself.”

The thickly accented voice of your boyfriend sends a wave of warmth in your chest. 

Your harasser hesitates a second too long, so Soap makes the decision for him, tightening his grasp until the soldier winces, and finally takes the hint, letting you go and taking a few steps backward. Johnny immediately positions himself between the two of you, shielding you.

He’s been smiling the whole time, but it’s the kind of dangerous smile you wear when you’re about to give an asshole a righteous beating.

The private looks partially sheepish, but not defeated, indignation burning in his eyes. He lets loose a torrent of justifications and excuses, actively painting you as the villain, not caring if he contradicts himself in the process. You don’t pay attention to the details of his speech. It’s always the same “she was asking for it” kind of diatribe. The fact that he sincerely believes that there’s a chance that Soap will take his side instead of yours is laughable, but not surprising. 

You wonder how long this will go on, until the private notices something next to you, and all blood seems to desert his face as his voice deserts his vocal cords. 

You turn your head and, to no surprise to you, Ghost is there. He stands so close to you that your arms are almost touching. Clothed entirely in black, which brings out the white skull on his mask, his presence is as menacing as ever; all he needs to do is scowl at lesser soldiers to make them cower in fear. He doesn’t look back at you, but his support for you is so obvious through the rest of his behavior that he doesn’t need to.

Soap takes advantage of the newfound silence to turn to you.

“Ya good, yeah?” He asks, cradling your cheek tenderly, and stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. 

The question is futile - if you were hurt, he would have noticed right away. But it’s still cute to see.

“Yeah. Not a scratch.” you smile.

“That’s my girl”, he smiles back. “So, what the bloody hell happened here?”

You glance at the private behind him. He’s shaking, and the look he sends you back is begging for mercy. Remembering the first words he addressed to you earlier, you realize you’re all out of mercy for today. Thus, with a sadistic little smile, you recount the events.

“This man came to me complaining that I was unfairly privileging Sergeant Mctavish and that he wanted his turn. Then when I explained that I wasn’t some kind of free-for-all buffet, he took it the wrong way and put his hands on me. That’s when I exploded his nose.”

By the time you finish your explanation, Soap’s expression has darkened considerably.

“I see.” is all that leaves his mouth. Anyone familiar with him would know that for him to start talking by monosyllables like Ghost, something must be very wrong.

Pivoting again, he faces the private and, as the latter opens his mouth to plead for forgiveness, punches him right in the face. Blood gushes, drops of it landing on his face. You mentally count until three, one for every blow, and when Soap still doesn’t stop punching, you frown, disturbed and worried by his conduct. He’s never been one to remain impassive in the face of injustice, easily riled-up even in critical situations and despite his superiors’ orders, but you’ve never seen him go this far. 

You’re about to intervene when Ghost beats you to it, putting a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. That’s right. Ghost, the voice of reason, the paragon of self-control, their cold-hearted leader, will fix everything.

However when you hear the next words that leave his mouth, it’s like the world tilted on its axis.

“Not out in the open, Johnny.”

The words are whispered low enough that only Soap and you would have heard. They send a cold shiver down your spine. Rattled and unsettled in a way that they never made you feel before, you contemplate the situation in silent incredulity.

“Aye, L.T.”, replies Soap with an abnormally monotonous tone.

Before you can ask what the fuck is happening, he proceeds to punch the soldier so hard in the stomach that the latter collapses without a sound, except for the muffled noise of someone winded. The scene makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You feel like Bluebeard's newest wife, having stumbled upon the one room you were forbidden from entering, having witnessed something you weren't supposed to see, and now you can never go back to how things were before.

You counted on Soap and Ghost’s intervention, sure, but you expected them to put an end to the fight, maybe intimidate the guy a little, and ultimately end things here. You didn’t expect… whatever this is.

Staring in shock at the two Special Forces, you shake your head to get a grip and come closer.

“Alright guys, I think he’s had enough-”

Ghost interrupts you with a hand on your shoulder. The Ghost touching two people in less than five minutes? Yes, something’s seriously wrong. Looking at him, you try to convey urgency with your gaze…

“Simon, this isn’t-” 

…but his next words make you lose hope of winning this argument.

“Easy there, love. Johnny’s takin’ care of it, ya don’t need to worry ‘bout a thing.”

The next thing you know, he presses a hand against your lower back, making you leave the premises, completely ignoring the way you stare at him in utter disbelief… and growing apprehension. 

He had never called you “love” before.

[wordsmithic]

I don't like this for so many reasons. Anglophone (usually USAmerican) writers often take foreign words and misrepresent them in their books, misinforming a whole new wave of readers in the process. They regularly do this with Greek as well. These languages haven't resisted assimilation and suppression so they can be used as USAmerican accessories in 2023.

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy had the strangest sensation. He felt as though he had slept for a long, long time, and had only just now woken up again. Where had he been? He didn't know. What had he been doing? He just couldn't remember. How long had it been? He was not at all sure…

All he could recall was rain. Lots and lots and lots of rain. Rain every day. Rain every night. Rain every time he opened his eyes. Light, drizzly, all-day rain under a blanket of dense Scotch mist. Torrential downpours from menacing clouds which turned the daytime into twilight. Persistent, slanting rain driven relentlessly by winds that had roared across the ocean. Thunderous drenching rain which battered the landscape throughout the night. Rain! Absolutely nothing but rain!

But the rain had gone. When Algy woke up today the sun was shining, the sky was blue, the air felt warm, and he was surrounded by pretty yellow wildflowers that matched his hair. The rain had gone!

He leaned back against the drying grasses, soaking up the warmth of the unexpected sunshine, and surprised to observe that it was apparently late summer already. But although it was undeniably pleasant, something was missing. What was it? Algy looked right and left and all around, but everything seemed fine. Then he looked at the sky. Today it was beautiful. Today it was blue. Today it was calm. But today it was also empty. A vast blue expanse of open space, with nothing in it.

That was it… They had gone! The swallows and martins had left already, while he had been oblivious. For a moment Algy felt terribly sad, as he loved so much to see them swooping overhead. But then he recalled how harsh the wild west Highlands could be in the autumn and winter, and how miserable his wee feathered friends would be if they failed to leave in time. Evidently they had taken advantage of the sudden change in the weather to start their long trek south, and he hoped their journey would be safe and pleasant as a result. As he reclined in the grass he recalled a verse by a famous poet, and fervently hoped, as she had done, that his graceful friends would indeed return next year:

Fly away, fly away over the sea, Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done; Come again, come again, come back to me, Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.

[Algy is quoting the poem Fly away, fly away, over the sea by the mid-19th century British poet Christina Rossetti.]

[huariqueje]

Poets Pub - Alexander Moffat , 1980,

Scottish , b. 1980 -

Oil on canvas , 183 x 244 cm.

[scotianostra]

On September 26th 1994 Jessie Kesson, the author of Another Time Another Place, died.

Born Jessie Grant McDonald in a workhouse in Inverness, Jessie spent her early childhood in an Elgin slum. Aged 10, she was taken from her mother and put into an orphanage for the next six years. After school, a period of varied jobs and accommodation led to a nervous breakdown and a year in Aberdeen Royal Mental Hospital.

At 19, Jessie was 'boarded out' (or fostered) from the hospital to an old woman near Loch Ness. She rejoiced in her freedom and the beauty of her new surroundings. During this time, she met Johnnie Kesson, her future husband. They had two children and moved to London in the 1950s.

Kesson held a wide variety of jobs, including Woolworth's shop assistant, life model, BBC Radio producer, drama teacher, and working night shifts in a children's care home.

She worked full-time until she was 60 years old, and continued her writing career throughout this time. By the 1950s, Kesson was regularly published in Scottish periodicals and had written several radio plays. In an interview Jessie once said ' I've never felt I would write the great big novel. I've aye wanted to write the sma' perfect!'

Kesson gathered a number of notable friends throughout her life, including publishers, agents and fellow writers. Her friends included great Nan Shepherd, Flora Garry, Lisa St Aubin de Terán, Cecil Day Lewis and Neil Gunn. She also maintained many lifelong friendships from her early days in north-east Scotland.

She died in 1994, and her ashes were scattered with her husband's on the banks of Loch Ness near where they first met.

As well as her books Jessie's work was most notably made into a film, Another Time, Another Place, in 1983, starring Phylis Logan, Tom Watson and Gregor Fisher, and The White Bird Passes, was adapted for TV in 1980, she also wrote over 100 plays for radio.

Moment of Communication with List D. Girl.

F - - - off! she said. Dismissing me and my persuasions with a contemptuous stare that crinkled to a smile of small surprise When I in anger roared F - - - off to Where??

Sincerely, Jessie Kesson

[yourdailyqueer]

Maki Yamazaki

Gender: Transgender non binary (she/they)

Sexuality: Queer 

DOB: N/A  

Ethnicity: Japanese, white

Nationality: Scottish

Occupation: Artist, singer, musician, games developer, comic writer, poet

Note: Has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome

[urmom973729]

Just to let everyone know, Ireland has its own language, and so does Scotland.

SCOTLAND'S is called Gaelic and is pronounced Gah-lic

IRELAND'S is called Irish, or Gaeilge/Gaeilinn/Gaeilic depending on dialect when being said in the language.

Gaelic, pronounced Gay-lic, is an Irish sport (gaelic football) and a term used when talking about Irish culture.

STOP CALLING "IRISH" GAELIC AND STOP CONFUSING IT WITH SCOTTISH GAELIC!!!! Please do actual research before writing either into your fantasy books too.

[empirearchives]

Herman Melville on Napoleon’s love for Ossian

Context: Ossian is the narrator and purported author of a cycle of epic poems published by the Scottish poet James Macpherson, originally as Fingal (1761) and Temora (1763), and later combined under the title The Poems of Ossian.

“I am rejoiced to see Hazlitt speak for Ossian. There is nothing more contemptable in that contemptable man (tho' good poet, in his department) Wordsworth, than his contempt for Ossian. And nothing that more raises my idea of Napoleon than his great admiration for him.—The loneliness of the spirit of Ossian harmonized with the loneliness of the greatness of Napoleon.”

Melville wrote this around 1862 in the margins of his copy of Hazlitt’s Lectures on the English Comic Writers and Lectures on the English Poets

Source: Hershel Parker, Herman Melville: A Biography - Volume 2, p. 436

[saltwaterandstars]

JOMP BPC - 30th August - Freebie

My freebie book for this month is Natural Light: Portraits of Scottish Writers by Angela Catlin. I had a phase in my twenties of buying books of photographs of poets and other writers whenever I saw them in secondhand book shops. I really love this one though its looking a bit worse for wear these days. Angela Catlin is a very good portrait photographer though I think she's more well known these days as a photojournalist documenting humanitarian issues.