S. A. Crawford
Bio
Writer, reader, life-long student - being brave and finally taking the plunge by publishing some articles and fiction pieces.
Achievements (14)
Stories (211)
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Confession: I am Not Nice. Top Story - December 2025.
As a woman, I am very aware that I am supposed to be nice. I am supposed to be warm and giving and understanding; according to my very Church of Scotland upbringing I am also supposed to be a wellspring of calm, quiet compassion. No wrath, no hysteria (though this is deemed to be understandable due to the naturally delicate temperament of women). I am, in short, supposed to be ladylike. Feminine... and, if at all possible, graceful. The problem, lads and lassies, is that I am very few of these things most of the time and none of them very often.
By S. A. Crawford28 days ago in Humor
The Cartographer . Honorable Mention in Maps of the Self Challenge.
"Just when I think I have found the way to live, life changes." - Hugh Prather You cannot live more than three decades without some confusion, at least that's what I've come to believe. When I was six a teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and the question has never quite left me. I stood there in the play-doh and glue smelling class room, amongst miniature tables and chairs with grass in my hair and mud on my knees and told her I wanted to be a teacher... not because I had a great desire to be one, but because it seemed the polite thing to say to a teacher. Even then I wanted to please people. Maybe especially then.
By S. A. Crawford2 months ago in Humans
Peep . Honorable Mention in Through the Keyhole Challenge.
The problem with integrated, online security systems these days, Ava thought, was the fact that they weren't very secure... not if you had any real technological skills or knowledge. With so many cracks, crevices, and peep holes to exploit, it was no wonder that peoples homes were less safe than they had ever been... Of course, it was a blessing for her; being paid to shore up faulty defence systems paid well. More importantly, it scratched that itch she could never tell anyone about; she always left a little peep hole of sorts in her solutions. A space she could slide into to watch her previous clients as they went about their daily lives.
By S. A. Crawford2 months ago in Fiction
Dead Still
A very late entry for L. C. Schafers Spooktacular Dollar challenge! Silence had been Ellen Campbells friend for as long as she could remember, and because most of the people she dealt with on a daily basis were dead she got plenty of it. Running a mortuary was no-ones idea of glamour, but someone had to do it; her mother had always said if there was something to be done it was better to get it over with than put it off... That, she told herself, was what she was doing as she undertook a stock check while studiously ignoring the body in bay four. She was not putting off dealing with bay four, she was making sure she had everything she needed to get the job done.
By S. A. Crawford2 months ago in Fiction
Caul. Runner-Up in Masks We Wear Challenge.
Note: a caul is a part of the amniotic membrane enclosing a fetus that may be found still covering a newborns head and/or face after birth. Happening in just 1 in 80,000 births (est) it rare and was believed to be good luck in certain parts of medieval Europe. However, in other times and places it has been a sign that a child is marked by destiny, spiritually powerful, or even blessed with foresight... an in some very specific incidents, it was thought a caul marked out someone for a journey to the hangman's noose.
By S. A. Crawford3 months ago in Poets
The Ritual of Bones. Winner in The Ritual of Winter Challenge. Top Story - October 2025.
I have a pile of bones in my freezer, just a small one right now but it will grow. Winter comes like a seizure in Scotland; first the mellow summer starts to chill, then the morning air starts to smell of wet rot, and all of a sudden some of the nights and dawns are shockingly cold. Biting cold. It passes over and heat seeps back in. Then it comes again; fits of cold... And when the grass crunches underfoot every morning for a week and the sun doesn't rise until I'm on the bus to work I know its time to collect bones.
By S. A. Crawford3 months ago in Humans
