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)
Filter by community
People's Exhibit A
**Some dogs like to live life on the edge, this much is true, but the accused, Tia, should have been called Evel after a man who is clearly her icon, Evel Knievel. You see, Tia does not laugh in the face of death; she sprints toward it with abandon, looking at safety and sanity in the rearview mirror. I could list her crimes against common sense, decency, and intelligence all day, good people of the jury, but what good would it do?
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Humor
A Delicious Heist
Nanny had a routine when she cooked. She measured and mixed, then cleaned, then shaped and baked, then poured a mug of tea. So Hamish knew that he had about as much time as one cartoon show to pull off the heist of his life. Unfortunately, he couldn't do it alone. He needed Malcolm, who was just five and not very smart.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Fiction
The Bloody Queen
Rohs, the beating heart of Thenia, and at its centre the Golden Palace; Inna stared at her home in wonder, as if for the first time, while the merchant ship Phoenix glided into the broad harbour. Those spires seem to pierce the very sky, beckoning her home more insistently than her fathers' cryptic letter.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Fiction
Broken Clock Stories
Ritchie Black never did shut up. He predicted everything; lightning and rain, traffic jams and accidents, floods and fires. The problem was, he was never right... until he was, and even then he was wrong. When the dark patch of water bubbled and broiled, it wasn't Godzilla that raised its head. Just a colossal grey submarine with shining turrets pointed right at the harbour master's office.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Fiction
The End of Malcolm McLeod
Some stories beg to be told like plaintive children, desperate to be heard in a noisy world. Others, like the story of poor Malcolm McLeod, my brother, demand to be told; they bite and scratch up the throat, making no allowances for fear. So listen, young men, and take heed, for I'll tell it only once. This story could save your life when you walk the misty moors of Scotland.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Fiction
Freya's War Cry
The concept of 'feminine rage' has been floating around for some time, but I feel like it has taken off in recent years, largely due to the wave of self-expression amongst younger women on TikTok. It may seem contradictory, at first; rage, after all, is a human emotion, one step above anger and, I would argue, one below wrath.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Beat
The Perfectionist Diaries - 3
Good friends are worth their weight in gold; mine are some of the best. No matter how silly I become, how wrapped up in my own head, how afraid of failure or stagnation, they bring lightness and fun to my life. I am not ashamed nor afraid to say that my life wouldn't amount to very much without them.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Confessions
One Foot in the Past: a Playlist
Time runs through our fingers like water, and the harder we try to hold onto it, the quicker it goes. This is something everyone has to come to terms with, but music has always been there. It holds the mystic cords of memory in place, and can bring us back to a time long past with a single note. In fact, research into neuroplasticity and music suggests that music therapy could alleviate some of the symptoms of Alzheimer's disease.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Beat
Fading Footsteps
Four footsteps in soft mud, two small, two large. One forward, one behind, winding ever forward with lessons along the way. Growing until they match, like reflections. When the pace changes and they switch, I will not leave you behind. You taught me to look forward, hold up my chin, be careful, and be kind. Though the lessons were taught, counted in mismatched footsteps, I find, as yours fall back, that I cannot forgive time.
By S. A. Crawford3 years ago in Fiction
