Author: Thomas Kelly

Ram Ram, or to give him his full name Ramanujam Navalpakkam Rangaswamy had already started at the bank when I arrived. He was a thin, quiet, courteous and deliriously polite man whose sole task was to analyse the Indian stock market for me. He had been given an office with no windows, no pictures and…

This telegram was received by my step great-grandfather in July 1927. In many ways this is an early tweet and the 19 words made me think. What did The King want, and using some poetic licence I have tried to describe two men and their memories. The King had abandoned the Tsar in 1917. Diggle…

7th September 1940 I write this in pencil on thick khaki paper So I would not forget later My fear as the bombing started. And walking slowly in a crocodile to our cellar School friends for ever We were never parted.   10th September 1940. It could not be true; So I put my hand…

Chapter 2 This chapter was written by my friend Sarah who is on my writing course and the exercise was to compose a story between us.  Suddenly, her phone blurted out, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”. Why was her alarm assaulting her in the middle of the night? Disorientated, she fumbled the noise away…

Chapter 1 The last time she had been to Glasgow, it was dull and rained grey. The student digs were cold, damp and generally miserable. Her then-boyfriend insisted she came up for his finals week. There had been a lot of drinking and then some rather inconsequential groping on a single bed. A flatmate coming…

It is two a.m. The main arrival terminal at Dubai is shaped like a pangolin, resting in a shallow sand grave. Steel white ribs brace its bleached skin tight providing shelter against the searing heat. It lies inert like a giant slug, too fat or lazy to move and ingests passengers delivered constantly on conveyor…

The large brass hinged, black stained wooden front door of the British Bank of the Middle East opened onto a litter strewn, dusty straight road. Hot wind had funnelled plastic cups and wrapping papers from the night’s kebab meals like tumbleweed along the curbs and drink tins had lodged themselves into the storm grates. No…

In our writing class of 14, we had to follow the previous person’s page, and I was almost the last. These will all be put together to make the final story called The Hat. This is my page and I will post the whole story when all finished. Looking through the file and as his fingers…

From the moment he saw it, that wet pink slip of paper wedged into the hedge, he knew that it was a lottery ticket. Always conscientious and meticulous he picked it up and put it along with the other pieces of litter from his walk into the now rather bulging coat pocket. He was not…

Last week in Nevis in the West Indies I met the wonderful author and local historian Dr June Goodfield and then by chance Roger Daltry. She told me that stories of the Caribbean tend to concentrate on drugs, slavery, pillage and not forgetting the Pirates! There was so much more she said. So following on from…