Lancastrian Nights, a true story, tells the wonderous tale of a chance meeting and highlights the magic of life.

“Going souling", they used to call it. I can remember m’grandad telling me he used to do it, when he were little, going round the houses and offering to say prayers for the dead, in exchange for these little cakes, soul cakes they called ‘em.

Saturday. Ged’s day. Best day of the week. When Jean usually pops over to see her sister. If I play my cards right we’ll hardly see each other till tomorrow.

Even though Miss Parker is nice, I don’t always like our visits. She has so many words while I have none.

I dream of one day having a house that my mom and sister and I can all live in. I want one just like the gray house on the corner.

Three o’clock on a Thursday was an odd time for a visit, but it was the only downtime between my part-time jobs that suited Jo. More unusual than the time was the prospect of a one-to-one rendezvous in my bedsit with someone about my age and attractive.

Today was her birthday – sixty-six years old going on ninety – and she was spending it the same way she had spent every other day except Sunday for the past thirty-two years.

The world to Kieran Gilchrist had never made complete sense, even more so when he found his mum and dad stone-cold dead in their bed one rainy morning.

I won’t tell anyone about the diagnosis. Not my mother or sister. Certainly not Jake. Maybe not even Steve.

Stella cannot remember a time before nature was her haven, her place of peace and healing. It was a big part of her life before she met her husband and the father of her two children.

Twenty years after the death of his only pet, Jonah found himself wondering how he may share some similarities with the disgusting, stupid-looking creature his parents gifted him.

He wasn’t wanted in this country. But as a volunteer in the hospital, he could serve and he could belong.

Aside from that Glaswegian Friend of the Earth, Dougie Macleod didn’t have a lot of time for the other men on the rig. He kept his head down and got his work done.

Nothing is as visceral as holding a handful of human ash. I resist the impulse to sift it between my fingers as I walk. Everyone, from the mourners to the pastor, are far away and yet too close.

His fingers moved over the strings of his violin with ease and without effort. The bridge, the neck, the strings, and the bow was an extension of his talent as well as his soul.