If the surprise outcome of the recent UK referendum - on whether to leave or remain in the European Union - teaches us anything, it is that supposedly worthy displays of democracy in action can actually do more harm than good. Witness a nation now more divided; an intergenerational schism in the making; both a governing and opposition party torn to shreds from the inside; infinitely more complex issues raised than satisfactory solutions provided. It begs the question 'Was it really all worth it' ?
I returned to the fields of glory, where the green grass an' flowers grow,An' the wind softly sings the story of the braves lad of long ago.In the great glen, they lie a-sleeping, where the cool waters gently flow,An' the grey mist is sadly weeping for the brave lads of long ago.See the tall grass is there a-waving as their flags were so long ago;With their heads high, were forward braving, marching onwards to meet the foe.March no more, my soldier laddie, there is peace where there once was war.Sleep in peace, my soldier laddie. Sleep in peace now, the battle's o'er.
Hardship bred a bitter, quickfire humour and resilience to all but the most terminal of life's tragedies.
If Canada had a soul (a doubtful proposition, Moses thought) then it wasn't to be found in Batoche or the Plains of Abraham or Fort Walsh or Charlottetown or Parliament Hill, but in The Caboose and thousands of bars like it that knit the country together from Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia, to the far side of Vancouver Island.
Annie's message is timeless, her shining spirit and healing gift from the Spiritual Universe will capture your heart. She was born with birth defects in a time when special children and their mothers were put to death or banished. But have things changed really that much? Have they changed enough? No! Bullying, abuse, ridicule, and inequality thrives in the lives of women and children in our global modern society, just as surely as it did in the mid-1600s Colonial America. Based on factual research.
An old liar told me hereTo think ahead and save my money.I should have spent it on ribbons.I should have learned the tune my dead grandfather playedWhen the daft wife heard him resoundingIn the deep pine woods in early November.
Ya were going to turn me into a rat? Had I known that I wouldn’t have tried to turn ya into a snake.
Do not pay attention to my cousins. Every family needs a couple idiots and we keep them around for entertainment.
Lydia had been fantasizing about him to the point she nearly drove him insane with it. It had taken four days for his energy to weaken inside her enough that he could go and visit her without fear she would throw him across the town in a gust of wind, and thus cause a scene. Although, getting run out of town after one day would be a new MacGregor record.
There ya are.” Erik grinned at her as he came bounding down the steps two at a time. He stepped around his statue of a sister as if such a thing were normal. Perhaps here it was. He paused, nodding at Malina. “Morning, banshee.” He gave a small brotherly laugh and poked his thumb toward her face. “She does kind of look like a banshee with her hair flying around like that and her mouth all open. Yeah, ma froze her good. See how her eyes don’t move?” Erik leaned closer to her and grinned as he looked into her mouth. “Ha, Euann put a mint in there.
Ly-di-ah! I sit beneath your window, laaaass, singing ’cause I loooove your a—”“For the love of St. Francis of Assisi, someone call a vet. There is an injured animal screaming in pain outside,” Charlotte interrupted the flow of music in ill-humor.
I had zero idea of what I was doing.. I honestly had no idea where to start. All I knew was I had something I craved to say.. I wanted to create art that lived on longer than I do. Perseverance and teaching yourself, every day through stress and hard work proves shit really does progress without you realizing. One minute you're an amateur, knowing nothing, not even the basics. The next you can put pen to paper, write a song, and create art in such little time! It's crazy beautiful.
...but the air's flat and stale and the people half-hearted. There's nothing to do there. You can make love without trouble or meaning, or get mildly drunk, or extract second-hand emotions from the cinema, or put your mind to sleep on a dance-floor, or play bridge, or throw yourself in front of a train on the Underground. There are forty ways of escaping from consciousness. But I want something more exciting than that.
To want more was not just childish, but cowardly, and somehow constpatory too. Death was change; it led to new chances, new vacancies, new niches and opportunities; it was not all loss.
If you can't tell from my rap lyrics already, yes I am a feminist. And when I'm saying hoe or bitch I am actually referring to men. ...That sounded bad, in someway. But at the end of the day, I'm sick of rappers using bitches and hoes as terms towards women. Feminists are NOT a hate group. Feminists are not all female. Nor has it got an anti-male agenda. It's about equality! I've had a weird, special bond with women since I was a kid. And it's just a shame really that I'm gay.
Her eyes widened, convinced by the size of it that his shaft was fully erect. She blinked several times. No, she was wrong. The bulge moved, growing as she watched it.Not that I mind ya staring, love, but I've got an appointment I must keep.
If Scotsmen don't wear anything under their kilts and they ride a horse, do you think they chafe their manbits?
She didn't even want to think of how hellish it would be if all the MacGregors made her feel like this one did, all hot and shaky. She'd have to move to the Arctic Circle before the month was out just to cool off.
Emotions like these didn't happen to regular, everyday people. They couldn't or else the entire world would be fornicating all the time.
For your next act, please don't pull any rabbits out of my... well, hat.....He licked playfully at her mouth. And ya can't call my manhood 'rabbit'.
For your next act, please don't pull any rabbits out of my... well, hat.....He licked playfully at her mouth. And ya can't call my manhood 'rabbit'.At least give it a manly name I can brag about.
The sparkle and morning-freshness of the shop, and the butter-conjuring girl, formed a mind-picture which accompanied the whole of my youth.(about the Buttercup Dairy)
The website increases my excitement when I read, “Hark, the pies are calling!” My excitement is short-lived, however. I read the page again and realize that it is “pipes” that are calling, not “pies” as I had hoped. I am disappointed. I personally react better to the call of pies.
For me, writing stories set, well, wherever they're best set, is a form of cultural curiosity that is uniquely Scottish - we're famous for travelling in search of adventure.
He poured a splash of liquid into a second cup. “Come in and warm yerself by the fire.” Ariana walked deeper into the room, toward the glow of the hearth. It’s heat enveloped her skin and eased away the chill with such expediency, she almost sighed. Connor appeared beside her with a metal cup extended. “I canna sleep often myself.” She closed her fingers around the cool surface and glanced at the dark liquid within. A sharp scent hit her nostrils. “Whisky,” Connor said. He was perfection in the firelight. Shadows etched his jaw while the light softened his face, his lips. The powerful lines of his chest were visible at the neck of his leine, as well as a dark peppering of small curling black hairs. “Whisky,” Ariana said with a forced stare at the cup instead of him. “Of course. I drink this all the time.” “Aye, I knew that about ye. When I first saw ye, I thought, ‘Now there’s a lass who can handle her whisky.’” Connor winked at her with disarming playfulness. “It’ll do ye some good. Take off the chill and settle yer thoughts.” “Why do you assume my thoughts are unsettled?” she asked. He took a swallow from his cup. “Because sleep comes easily to those without weight on their minds.” Ariana took a careful sip from her own cup, the way she’d seen men at the card tables drink. The liquid burned like sin down her throat and caught in her chest. She gritted her teeth and swallowed hard several times to keep from sputtering. Though she’d hoped to keep her reaction discreet, the grin on Connor’s face told her he saw through her guise. “It’s good.” Her voice came out in a croak and Connor laughed. It was a warm, rich sound and she found it terribly pleasing. His eyes crinkled. “Now that we’ve discovered yer love of whisky, why dinna ye tell me what’s got yer thoughts heavy?
Many existing top 20 Scottish writers have flourished in part because of good turns done by institutions, arts community, libraries and bookshops.