Wilkie Stewart
Bio
Writer of strange little tales living in Glasgow, Scotland. A former IT professional who loves literary fiction, poetry, Eurovision, art-house film, post-crossing, and comics. Walks daily with his camera when he can. @werewegian1 on Twitter
Stories (25/0)
Seven Lost Days
On Monday his watch stopped. He wasn't sure to start with but during a slow lecture he glanced at it several times and on the third look he realised that the minute hand was stuck at seven. He nudged his neighbour asking in a low voice for the time. The girl had long hair which partly covered her face as she wrote her notes. Use your phone, she whispered without looking up. He felt in his pocket for the mobile he knew wasn't there. He nudged her again. Don't have it. What time is it? She grunted with impatience but showed him her phone. He was right - his watch had stopped.
By Wilkie Stewart2 months ago in Fiction
What makes a good postcard?
I've been post-crossing as werewegian for over ten years now. In case you don't know, postcrossing.com is a great website where you send a postcard to a randomly generated address around the world, and when it arrives and is registered, you in turn receive a postcard from a third random party. It's a fun hobby and one of the reasons I like it is that as well as tourist, Royal Mail or shop bought postcards, I can send postcards made from my own photographs. I make these at moo.com.
By Wilkie Stewart2 months ago in Photography
The Balloon Seller
The room was a hubbub of high excitement from the kids, and low murmurs from the serious fans as John flicked through the box. He'd attended many comic marts over the years even before the explosion of superhero movies. Sometimes he just browsed, picking up a few old comics more on whim than on purpose. Today he was on a mission. He could feel a tightness in his stomach as he worked through the issues of a favourite title. He recognised the covers and the story arcs. He slowed down as he approached his quarry. Flick. No 34. April 1995. Flick. No 35. May 1995. Flick. No 36. June 1995. He paused. Flick. No 38. Fuck, he said under his breath. He checked over the rest of the issues, but they were in numerical order. There was no mistake.
By Wilkie Stewart5 months ago in Fiction
Payment in Kind
Out in the corridor, Scotty hears the TV through the wall. The paintwork is smudged by thousands of dirty hands. His throat is dry, and his head is dull. The walk up the staircase has made him breathless. He pauses to collect himself. He nudges the water bottle in his pocket, but it is empty. He is too old for this.
By Wilkie Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
25 ideas to get you writing
As a writer you will usually have stories that you are working on or a bigger project such as a novel underway. Sometimes, however, you have the time and the inclination to write something new, but you are out of ideas. This is when using a prompt is helpful. A prompt is simply an idea that gets you to put that first word down on paper or typed onto your screen. It's a launching point and quite often as you write you'll drift away or discard the original concept to go somewhere else entirely.
By Wilkie Stewartabout a year ago in Motivation
The Morning Post
She pushed the barrow across the lawn, her smock billowing, the breeze stirring the leaves again, making a mockery of her afternoon's work. Gertrude did not notice the trail behind her. Her thoughts were on the poem in her head. Did that word fit there? She whispered a line aloud, feeling the rhythm of the phrase on her tongue, the punctuation between her teeth.
By Wilkie Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
Strangers On The Way
There was a crow on the branch above him, peering down, weighing up whether it should fly away or take him on. Tom stirred the pot, the soup beginning to bubble, making spitting noises in the pan. He turned the knob on the gas canister a touch to reduce the heat.
By Wilkie Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bothy
Mick came down from the mountain later than he intended and decided to cut his losses, forego his night in the bunkhouse, and find the Craigfalloch bothy instead. On the brow of a hill he caught a signal on his phone and quickly contacted the bunkhouse owner and let them know he wouldn't be back this evening after all. That done, he trudged down the path towards the stone cottage which sat perched on a hillock beside a black lochan.
By Wilkie Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
