IT BEGAN with a kiss. Not a passionate embrace but a soft brush on the cheek.

The feeling of warmth and love from an old friend lingered on beyond the dream and well into the following days …

Like a little seed, the feeling grew and grew until I longed to be with my old friend. All the while, I thought to myself how sublime that Cupid should strike without even so much as the presence of one who I hadn’t heard from in years …

The phone call came three weeks later. He came round for a few beers and we shared stories. He’d sent me a distress flare of sorts three weeks earlier, he said. Yes, I definitely got the message, I said. And then the rest was history.


Copyright M K MacInnes 2018

A Matter of Convenience


A COUPLE rented a weekend retreat on a Scottish island of which the woman was a native. She thought it best not to tell her other half that the lower level of their holiday apartment used to be the gents’ public toilets. Upstairs was the control room of the old ferry terminal.

During their first night she awoke to find him staring at the ceiling. He informed her that there was a bunch of people standing around the bed. She went rigid.

“What do you mean? You mean standing around the bed looking at us? Or just standing?”

He was matter of fact. “Just standing. In a line.”

“What, as in ghosts? I don’t see anything.”

“Yes. I can’t exactly see them but I know they’re there.”

“So what are they doing?”

“Just standing. Like they’re in a queue or something.”

The woman shut up for a moment and closed her eyes. “I don’t feel anything. If this place was haunted, I’d sense something. Besides, the dog would be acting all weird but he isn’t.” It was true, the dog hadn’t moved from his cosy spot on the end of the bed.

Although she knew that this was most likely another one of his wind-ups, for the remainder of the night the woman was tormented by images of rough chain-smoking hairy blokes smelling of motor oil and relieving themselves against the back wall.


THE WOMAN was determined that she would only tell her other half where he had been sleeping on their return home. But she cracked. And he handled it much better than she had anticipated. Eager for evidence of some kind of window into the local past, she pushed for more detail about what the avenue of men was doing. More specifically, where were their hands?

In the end, she had to spit it out. “ Could they have been doing, you know, what people normally do in public conveniences?”

“Of course not. Don’t be so bloody stupid. I made the whole thing up. And at what point did I ever say they were all men?”


ON THE final day of their vacation, the woman telephoned the landlord to let him know when they would be leaving and that they would put the key through the front door. As she was about to hang up, one thing was still niggling her.

“Just as a matter of interest, this building, it used to be the ferry terminal, didn’t it?”


“And the living room on the first floor, with the fantastic view overlooking the harbour, that used to be the control room?”


“And the bedroom downstairs, that used to be the gents’ toilets, yes?”



“Yes, no. The gents was next door. The bedroom used to be the ticket office.”


Copyright (c) M K MacInnes 2015


Five curious students that should have known better perform a séance. It seemed like a good idea at the time …

“… I LOOKED for the tell-tale signs of white on the end of someone’s fingernails but there were none … [The glass] darted from letter to letter, spelling out words that did not make sense. [It] moved with such ferocity, that I could feel the centrifugal force of it being pulled from under my fingers. With each successive direction it took, it followed lines that were so straight, and ninety-degree turns so sharp, that none of us could have been the cause … When the speed reached a level at which none of us were able to keep up, we all broke contact at the same moment and screamed …”

Extract from ‘Weejie’ from Close Call: Short and Bittersweet by M K MacInnes. Available now as ebook and paperback on or

Who needs drugs?

Let’s go on a day trip.
To the country?
No, not exactly. We just nip to the place
where the very walls vibrate their way
from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian
and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells
and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell.

The Beast lurks in every corner,
the carpet waxed while the moon is on the wane.
It’s hard to feel relaxed
when the Eye that Sees All is upon you
in the name of the infernal Pantheon,
who shall remain shameless
but who we all know and love
as they watch from above
the chess-ridden hall of nameless pawns
who were shot down in flames.

And the Book of the Dead teeters
on the brink of a shelf-ful of dust,
while Madam Blavatsky, screwed to the wall,
struggles to think.

Tales of alchemical lust in the back rooms linger ….
Here lies deceit – and exploded hearts,
every …
so often …
missing … …
a beat.

It’s not very hard in a place such as this,
to enter the twilight,
cross the veil into the Abyss,
beyond the pale
where devils kiss.


Copyright Morgan MacInnes (c) 2000

The Poet

I follow the path of poets of old.
Their voices beckon me into the fold,
Many cut short in the days of their prime,
but nevertheless remembered in rhyme.

For somehow in the throes of death,
They cry out with mortal breath
“O kindred spirits, living or departed,
carry on the work I started.”

For aspiring poets share a trait,
a common tendency to emulate
to the point of near obsession
those who leave the headiest impression.

Now inspired to the point of distraction,
I write of comrades wounded in action
of rescues effected in countless battles,
mothers and children herded like cattle.

I do not know from whence it comes,
the cries of the dying, the pounding drums.
These are the things that came from before,
days long since gone, ages of yore.

I have no desire to write of such things
as flowers and trees and tiny birds’ wings.
In poetry books they have their place,
but me I will write, by the gift of God’s grace,
of karmic desire and brave young men,
journeys beyond and back again.

Written during my Wilfred Owen phase!

Copyright (c) 1998-99