Tag Archives: #newblog

A World of Frost and Magic – a Christmas short story

Outside the world was crisp and cold. White frost sparked on the ground in the wintery sunlight. Wrapped up in a thick jacket with a fur-lined hood, hat and gloves, Rosie took her mummy’s hand and squeezed it tight. Mummy had promised her “a magical adventure.”

She had been a bit surprised when her mother had driven them to the beach but she kept quiet, trusting implicitly that Mummy knew where they were going.

It was Christmas Eve and as they had scraped the ice from the windscreen of the car before setting off, Mummy had reassured her that they could scatter the sachet of “reindeer dust” that Rosie had brought home from school as soon as they got back from their adventure. Overflowing with excitement about Christmas and Santa Claus and presents, Rosie had asked if they could lay out Santa’s milk and cookies and a carrot for Rudolph too. She had been a little bit disappointed when Mummy had said no because it would be too early but had brightened up when she promised that they would do it before bedtime.

“So much to do on Christmas Eve!” thought Rosie as she walked along the icy path holding her mother’s hand. “And we’ve got to go on this magical adventure too!”

As they walked, Mummy pointed out a huge holly bush with jaggy green leaves and millions of bright red berries. She also pointed out a tiny robin that seemed to be following them as it hopped from one fence post to the next.

Instead of taking the usual path to the beach, Mummy turned right into the woods. Without their leaves, Rosie thought the trees looked a bit scary. They towered above her! Trying to be brave, she held on even tighter to her mother’s hand.

“Nearly there,” promised Mummy, squeezing her hand. “Keep your eyes peeled for the fairy stepping stones.”

“How will I know what to look for?” quizzed Rosie.

“Round flat white stones no bigger than a penny. If they were any bigger the fairies couldn’t move them. You’ll know them when you see them.”

They had only walked a little further when Rosie spotted them. There was a whole trail of them leading away from the path into the forest.

“There they are!” squealed Rosie, eyes wide with excitement and her fear of the trees forgotten.

“If you promise to stay extra quiet, we can follow them.”

Together they tiptoed quietly into the woods, following the trail of fairy stepping stone.

“Will we see a real fairy?” whispered Rosie, taking great care not to stand on any of the small white stones.

“Maybe.”

The white pebble trail led them to a tiny fir tree standing slightly apart from the other trees.

“I think we’re just in time,” whispered Mummy. “Look down at the bottom of the tree beside the last stepping stone.”

Rosie crouched down but could only see the tree’s rough bark.

“Look closer,” encouraged Mummy.

Peering closely at the bark, Rosie saw a tiny step ladder, its top disappearing into the branches.

“Mummy, there’s a ladder,” she gasped quietly. “Is that how the fairies climb the tree?”

Her mother nodded then whispered, “Look at the branches. Look very closely at the ends.”

As she watched each branch closely, Rosie thought she saw movement between the pine needles but she couldn’t be sure then she saw that there was a tiny light at the end of one branch. Silently, she pointed to it and smiled at her mother.

As mother and daughter stood hand in hand, they watched a tiny light appear at the tip of every branch, starting from the bottom and working its way up the tree. Each light was a perfectly shaped bright white snowflake. When the trail of lights neared the top of the tree, Rosie wondered what was going to happen when the fairies reached the top.

Looking closely at the top of the tree, Rosie saw more ladders going right up through the pine needle to the very tip. Holding her breath, she watched five miniscule, winged figures climbed the ladder to the very top of the tree. Supporting each other, the fairies arranged themselves into the shape of a star with the tiniest fairy right at the very top. Once they were all in position, they each held up a lantern creating a dazzling star effect at the top of the tree. Rosie thought it was the most beautiful Christmas tree that she had ever seen.

“Time to go,” said Mummy softly.

“One more minute,” pleaded Rosie quietly, as she tried to imprint the image of the fairy lit tree into her mind.

“One minute and not a second longer,” agreed Mummy.

It had grown quite dark around them while they had been watching the lighting of the tree. As they retraced their steps, the fairy stepping stones appeared to glow in the dark, illuminating their way back to the main path. Halfway back, Rosie paused to turn to look back at the tree. It was twinkling among the huge dark trees that surrounded it. Rosie smiled.

“Come on, Rosie,” said her mother. “Time to go home and sprinkle your reindeer dust.”

With one last lingering look at the tree, Rosie headed home with her mother, hoping that Sanra might bring her a fairy doll.

(image sourced via Google- credits to the owner – no tag)

Five Minutes With Your 16-year-old self.

If you had the chance to sit down with your 16-year-old self for five minutes what would you say to them?

I sat down with the intention of writing this blog as a letter to my 16-year-old self. In fact, I had it half-written and I scored through it in my notebook. Why? Because if I wrote what I want to say and warned her about the decisions that perhaps did not lead down the happiest of paths or that didn’t match her 16-year-old dreams then I might not become the person I am today.

At 16 would you really believe what this weird 55-year-old version of yourself is telling you? Most likely not because a t 16 you think you’re invincible and know it all.

Looking back, I wasn’t perhaps a typical party animal teenager. I was always shy and introverted, a bit of loner with only a handful of friends. I was never popular in school. I was the girl with the long hair who was the weirdo that was always hiding in corners, scribbling furiously in a notebook. Those reading this who have known me since them are probably nodding and thinking that not much as changed in almost 40-years. To a degree, they would be right.

Would it be fair of me to go back and tell that fragile teenager that she will mess up her Highers and never get the chance to go to medical school to become a doctor?

Would it be fair to tell her about married life and her future children?

I don’t think so.

So, if I had a brief five minutes to sit and talk to my 16-year-old self, I’d tell her this.

“I love you and I am very proud of you. Don’t stop viewing the world with that child-like curiosity. Stay curious and fascinated by random things. Keep writing! Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re wasting your time or that you’re not good enough. You are more than good enough. Keep listening to your music. Don’t compromise your tastes to comply. Music plays a big part in your life and it always will. You’ll meet some amazing people through music. Stay in touch with your inner child. Keep her safe. She’s an integral part of what makes you who you are.”

Then I would give her a huge hug.

If she plagued me for more answers, I’d politely decline to reveal any more than that.

Throughout life we make our choices and decision based on the information available to us at that point in time. Yes, hindsight is a beautiful thing but if someone from the future influenced those decisions, even the simple ones like the decision to go out for a couple of drinks with a friend one Sunday evening when you’re 18, life would change. You wouldn’t be you. It’s the journey through life that makes us who we are and it’s taken a long time but I am proud of who I am.

I’d like to think my 16-year-old self would be proud of me too.

My 16-year-old self

Unconditional Feline Love (flash fiction -150 words)

Alone in the bedroom with their human, the two cats sat watching as the brave face she had put on during the day, the smiles and laughter from her business video calls, vanished. As they watched her pull a baggy t-shirt over her head, a cloud of sadness descended over her. Was that a tear on her cheek?

The feline brothers exchanged a glance, telepathically agreeing their strategy. Their human was their world and they were hers.

In the darkness as she slept, they settled on the bed, one on either side of her. One slept curled up close to her heart where she could reach out and hug him close. The other brother stretched out along the length of her legs, sharing his body heat with her to help ground those human emotions. Both of them purred the sound resonating deeply.

Surrounded by unconditional feline love, she slept soundly.

Note- the cat in the photo was Gandalf, my beautiful white boy who crossed over the rainbow bridge a long time ago. He was one of a kind. Miss him.

Have you ever felt drawn to journaling and not known how to?

Have you ever kept a journal? I have- many of them! (some of them are in the photo)

By journal, I’m not meaning a diary where you record what you did each day. (I’ve kept one of them for 40 some years.) What I’m meaning is a journal or notebook for your eyes only where you have poured your heart out onto the page or vented your frustrations.

Did you know that therapeutic journalling has been proven to help people who have suffered trauma and loss as well as those who suffer from chronic illnesses?

In the 1980’s James Pennebaker, a US social psychologist, was one of the first to study the therapeutic benefits of writing in a journal. His study found that journalling was beneficial both emotionally and physically. Journalling especially if the person has written about a stressful event or situation has been proven to support the body’s immune system.

There’s no right or wrong way to journal. It is YOUR journal for YOUR eyes only so of course you are at liberty to write in any way you feel drawn to. You don’t even have to write in full sentences and no one is going to correct either your spelling or your grammar. It is your space to write how you feel you need to but for those who have never tried to journal or who have tried and not had much success with it, I’m going to share a few suggested techniques.

One of the simplest ways to journal is use Lists to help acknowledge and address your fears or feeling or emotions. Have you ever jotted down a list of pros and cons? That’s journalling. This technique can be useful as it helps you to “join the dots” (think on feelings or emotions as the dots) and can help you to gain clarity around the situation.

It might be that you need to “speak” to someone to explain how you really feel about a situation but face-to-face you can never find the right words or the right moment. If you find yourself in this situation, you could write an “unsent letter.” This technique is also powerful for those who have suffered a loss and are grieving. Use your journal to write openly and honestly to the person on your mind and allow yourself to “speak” freely with out the fear of offending them or suffering any repercussions. It is a liberating experience! Trust me, I’ve written several “unsent letters,” especially over the last couple of years.

You can also journal about specific events that might either be the best or worst moments of your life. By writing about it, telling its story, it could offer you a different perspective on things so that, especially if it is a negative memory that you are reliving in your journal, that it becomes a chapter in the story of your life rather than the controlling narrative.

One of my personal favourite techniques is gratitude journalling. This is one that I practice at the end of every day before I head upstairs to bed. It’s a simple technique. You can buy specific gratitude journals but any notebook will do. For my daily practice, I write one sentence about three or four small moments from the day that I am grateful for. It could be something small like hearing your favourite song on the radio or on your playlist or the taste of your first cup of coffee of the day. Simple moments that made you smile. I also note down three or four things that I am looking forward to. Again, don’t over think it and keep it simple. These techniques only take a few minutes and can help you to find a few moments of light even on the darkest of days.

So, the next time a notebook catches your eye online or on a shelf in a shop, buy it.

If a novelty pen or sparkly pen, catches your eye and makes you smile, buy it. The combine the two with words from your heart.

You’ll feel the better of it.

Frankenstein’s Purr

From the second I saw them

Your blue eyes stole my heart

And you purred

From the day you came home

Cat wars that lasted a decade ensued

And you purred

You would fight with your shadow if it had paws

Advancing age and a lack of teeth didn’t matter

And you purred

The last of “the old guard”

Still looking like two cats stitched together

And you purred

A tiny cat with a huge heart

Always a midnight “song” for all to hear

And you purred

Too weak to stand

The rainbow bridge beckoned

And you purred

I miss that purr.

Frankenstein    Feb 2010- 14 October 2025

Several Pairs of Feet and a Lot of Brown Hens….

Over thirty-five years ago I read a book by Barbara Erskine called Lady of Hay. I still have that copy of it. That book sparked a lifelong interest in regression and past lives.

Is this really our first life? Is it our only life? What about all those déjà vu moments? Were there other lives?

At the time, in the late 1980’s, I remember telling my mum that I would love to be regressed but that was pre-internet, and it was difficult to track down a therapist via the Yellow Pages. Plus, would I really trust a total stranger to do that kind of therapy with me even if I did fine one?

The thought floated through many times over the years, but I never acted on it until now.

If you are a total cynic about past lives, re-incarnation and the like, you might want to stop reading here and come back next week.

Still with me?….

A couple of weeks ago while I was scrolling through Facebook, I spotted a post from a friend celebrating her success with two recent training courses. There was a lovely smiling photo of her with her two certificates. Two words on once of the certificates caught my eye. I zoomed in – past lives.

Ok so now you see where this is going….

After a quick telephone chat with the lovely lady herself, I made an appointment for a past lives’ hypnotherapy session.

If you Google past life regression therapy or past lives’ hypnotherapy you get an AI overview that explains “it’s a hypnotherapy technique that guides a person to access supposed memories of past lives to resolve current issues.”

I wasn’t going into this with the naïve expectation of learning that I’d been a princess living a fairy tale life or been a famous author or anything overly specific. Ok I might have been curious to learn if I’d been tried and hanged as a witch. (None of my close friends would have been surprised if that was the case!)

I didn’t go into the session itself with any expectations. I went in with an open mind.

What followed was the most amazing and surprisingly relaxing ninety minutes or so.

It would be unfair of me to go into too many specifics of the session here. (It might also make for a boring read if I relived it chapter and verse here and now.) Instead, I’ll cover the salient points that I feel comfortable to share.

I’ve never experienced any form of hypnosis before and that was perhaps the part I was a little anxious about. I needn’t have worried. That part was incredibly pretty and relaxing and led to me visualising a dark night sky (although my night sky was a colour I refer to as Reiki purple.) criss-crossed with a web of silver silky cords.

In my mind’s eye, with the therapist’s gentle encouragement, I chose one to follow and picked it up. Over the course of the session, I was encouraged at points to let go of the cord and “drop into” that life, starting each time by looking at my feet.

I saw several pairs of feet. The first pair were crammed into shoes that were too tight. I could actually feel my feet being squashed even though in my current life they were encased in a comfortable pair of Converse. Next were bare feet belonging to a girl of about twelve or thirteen. Men’s brown leather lace up shoes followed then it was back to bare feet. These bare feet belonged to a little boy about eight years old and they were filthy! Emerald green silk shoes followed on, and the final pair of feet were in well-worn black leather shoes.

Each time I got a sense of the lifetime that those feet led rather than feeling that I was in that lifetime. In the brown leather lace up shoes’ life, I was in a printshop with a huge old-fashioned printing press surrounded by piles of paper. I could smell the ink.

The lifetime with the emerald green silk shoes was the one that made me feel uncomfortable. That woman had led a life dominated by a controlling husband and was sad and lonely.

The final pair of feet in the comfortable black leather shoes provided the most vivid images of the session. I was asked to describe what I could see at one point. My reply almost made the therapist giggle. “Chickens. Brown hens everywhere. I like the eggs, but the hens are a nuisance!”

In future blogs or short stories, I may reveal more details of the lives each of those pairs of feet led but for now it feels right to keep most of that private.

The session did give me an insight into where one fear I have may have come from. I don’t like the dark. I get quite scared if I have to walk into a dark room or an unlit hallway. I’m fine outdoors in the dark. It’s indoors darkness that scares me and I’ve never known why.  The little boy with the dirty bare feet shared the same fear.

Several of the pairs of feet lived in coastal areas so perhaps that explains my love of being near water and needing to see an expanse of water on a regular basis. I could never live inland.

The therapist had assured me before we said goodbye that I wouldn’t take any of these past lives with me when I left. The past stays in the past. But, as I drove home, I couldn’t shake the image of the cottage with all of those brown hens in front of it.

When I went to my refrigerator to get something out to cook for dinner, I went to pick up the packet of chicken breasts and paused… It ended up being pasta for dinner. I just couldn’t face potentially cooking one of those pesky brown hens!

If any local friends want to experience their own past lives’ hypnotherapy session please reach out to

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100086909415191

(Image sourced via Google- credits to the owner – no watermark on image)

Staircase (poem)

Darkness enveloped the staircase ahead of me

Shadows stirred in its inky depths

Slowly I began to climb

Trusting that it was the path I should take

Step by step I climbed

Slowly the darkness fell behind

Grey ghostly mists swirled around

I continued to climb

Trusting that it was the path I should take

Sunlight filtered through

Dispersing the mists

Warmth and hope surrounded me

I continue to climb

Trusting that I am following the path I should take.

(image sourced via Google- credit to the owner)

Where do I do it? … a question from an indie author

For the past seven years my cluttered creative corner of the house has been my beloved writing desk in the corner of the living room

Those who have followed this blog for a long time may remember that I blogged about moving from the kitchen into the living room when that change was forced upon me thanks to a new car and a repositioning of the freezer. (Eviction Notice Served …… | Coral McCallum –  in case you missed it)

Over the next two years, I grew to love my creative corner in the living room. The words flowed as freely as they had when my desk was the table in the corner of the kitchen.

Then Covid came along and with it that brought the necessity to work from home. At that point in time The Big Green Gummi Bear was also working from home and had based himself in the study so with no other choice, my creative space became my work space during the day and then returned to being my creative space a night. Like every other scenario we were faced with, I made it work as best as I could.

A few months later The Big Green Gummi Bear fell ill (terminal brain tumour) and for the next three years, I continued to work from home fulltime, working at my desk during the day then switching laptops at the end of the day to restore it as my creative space at night. The study became The Big Green Gummi Bear’s “bat cave” where he whiled away many hours with YouTube videos and films. I made it work as best as I could.

After The Big Green Gummi Bear passed away in late October 2023, when I was ready to return to work I had the choice of where to work when I was working from home. I could go into his “bat cave” or stay where I was in the corner of the living room. Emotionally I knew there was only one option I could cope with. For over nine months, I chose to stay in the living room. This worked for the day job, but it was no longer working for the me creatively in the evenings.

Let’s face it, by this time, I’d spent about sixteen hours a day most days for over four years in the living room. I was sick of the sight of it! It had begun to feel like a prison cell.

Creatively, the words refused to flow and that frustrated me…and scared me a little. Could I still do it?

About a year ago, I finally felt emotionally ready to claim the “bat cave” as my own and moved up there to work during the day. I’ll not lie it took a long while before I was comfortable being in that small room for more than a few minutes at a time.  Bereavement does strange things to a person.

My writing desk in the living room became my creative space once again…but the room still felt like a prison cell. The words began to flow a little more freely but overall, it still didn’t feel right.

I persevered then made a decision. It was time for another change.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally had the room re-painted. Gone were the candle soot-stained peach walls, replaced with a fresh clean silvery blue shade called Frost Fairy. New curtains were bought and hung. A new sound system was added as some of the speakers in the old one had long since given up the ghost. I de-cluttered the room. I tidied out my desk and de-cluttered the top if it, only retaining a few of the things that had previously sat there. I added a stunning new crystal sphere (poppy jasper and flower agate – just in case you were curious). Gone was the old uncomfortable chair. I replaced it with a nice new kneeling chair. I’ve always wanted one of those!

I’m viewing this as a much-needed creative re-boot.

The smell of paint still lingers in the air and perhaps it’s a little too soon to be sure, but I feel more confident now that the words that have been desperate to be set free will once again start to flow.

Time will tell….

The Measly Jar of Motivation – Rosebud Sweets

As soon as I pulled this prompt from the Measly Jar of Motivation, I smiled as a childhood image came flooding back – rosebud sweets!

I haven’t tasted on of those sweets in almost forty years! (Lord, that makes me sound SO old! LOL)

When I was a wee girl, before I was old enough for school and then during the school holidays, I would go to the local post office on a Tuesday with my Wee Gran to collect her pension. The postmaster, Mr Stirling was a character. He was a lovely old man who always had time for a blether and a joke with his customers but equally important, he kept a dish of sweets beside him to give to the children who came into the post office.

The dish was actually the plastic lid off one of the big jars of traditional “old fashioned” sweets that shops used have lined up on shelves behind the counter.

Usually there was a lengthy queue in the post office on pension day. I would stand patiently with my gran as we edged closer to the counter. There were always two people serving – Mr Stirling and a lady called Agnes. She too had a dish of sweets beside her, but she didn’t always offer you one. I don’t think she liked children that much and to be honest, I was a little scared of her.

If Mr Stirling served my gran, before he’d stamp her pension book and count out the cash, he would offer me the dish and say to take a sweetie. Sometimes, when he was passing the pension book and pension back across the counter, he would say to take a second sweet.

Those small pink rose scented fondant sweets were delicious. To this day they are one of the scents and tastes of childhood.

A few years later, Mr Stirling retired, and another postmaster took over. The first time after that when I accompanied my gran to the post office, I was a little bit anxious. Would this new man know that he was supposed to give the children a sweet? Would he think I was too old to get a sweetie?

I needn’t have worried. The dish of rosebud sweets was still there.

Years went by and I grew up and became a teenager, while my wee gran simply grew older. Occasionally when I was in my late teens, I would be trusted to go and collect her pension for her. As I stood in the queue feeling both grown up at being trusted with such an important errand and about sixty or seventy years too young to be in the queue, another thought entered my mind. Was I now too old to be offered a rosebud sweet?

It turns out I wasn’t. I guess you’re never too old to enjoy a rosebud sweet.

Image sourced via Google- credits to the owner (no watermark)

Grown (poem)

Tiny fingers and tiny toes

It doesn’t seem so long ago….

Now I look at you and smile

Proud of how you’ve grown

But in my heart, you still have

Those tiny fingers and tiny toes

(Image sourced via Google – credits to the owner)