Welcome to Northern Wordsmiths
We are a group of fiction writers based in the North East of England. On this blog, we share what we're up to and some of our work.
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‘Strange Tales are These’ By Sheila LaNewton (it’s my Pen Name) Finally, in September 2025, my Seven Short Stories, ‘Strange Tales are These’ was published. It was a cathartic moment in my life. Oh, my, I was OVER THE MOON. The whole journey was an enjoyable one. Getting those creative juices flowing. Letting my imagination
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On a street in the City of Liverpool, in the days of my childhood, every house has a wash house. Brick-built, they stand proud in back yards. Containing a Belfast sink, a cast iron mangle, a galvanised steel Poss-tub and a wooden Poss-stick (some called them Dolly-tubs and Dolly-sticks), they’re put to use every Monday.
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You inherited. You got the houseMum waved the letter in my faceYour Auntie Lilly passed awayAnd left you her fine bungalowOn that big plot of land in OzYou jammy sod, she said I ordered tickets, two to PerthWith Qantas in EconomyWe flew toward my destinyWe slept, we talked my sis and I‘bout Auntie Lillie’s bungalowYou
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This is a story, INSPIRED BY, in a teeny-tiny way, one tale in my brand-new short story collection, Strange Tales are These. That particular story is entitled, It’s Raining Cats and Dogs. This story, “Come in Number Nine …”, pays homage to the magic tree-of-life in “Cats and Dogs”, to Odin, the Norse god and
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(For Kids from One to Ninety Two) In a field, not too far away, in the pastures of Northumberland, they ate, slept and played. Three friends – and occasional enemies – lived their lives in glorious, splendid friendship… or not so much, as often happened. One minute, they’d be the best of pals, the next,
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“Walls have ears”, they say. What a load of rubbish. Walls can’t hear. It’s about whoever happens to lean against the wall … listening. And that could be me, eavesdropping. I snoop. I’m a meddler, if the mood takes me. I’m a Fly-on-the-Wall. I irritate. Buzz around. Get nasty. I’m commonly known to my fellow
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Life is a gamble, without preamble. Till death us do … one and one, make two You and me, for eternity Bet your life there’ll be no strife For richer or poorer, I’d never been surer A spending spree – notes of Monopoly In a game of chance, we two were enhanced A bit of
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It was Christmas in the orbit of Saturn, and on a station somewhere between the moons of Enceladus and Tethys, everything was going tits up. I was pulling into the dock ready to pick up my cargo when I received a several-days-late message from Huxian Mercantile, cheerfully informing me that my services were no longer
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It started its life with me, planted to grow up a trellised arch. It was so young and looked so fragile. How wrong was I? From knee-high to a grasshopper – much like Topsy in Uncle Tom’s Cabin – it “just grow’d”. And boy, did it grow. In its first year, it grew (grow’d) to
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It had all kicked off earlier this morning, when Pip’s two cousins arrived. Pip was thrilled they were coming to Newcastle for the summer. All the way from Cumbria. Whenever they’re together, Jacko always sounds like he’s well-in-charge giving orders to the other two. He’s seven, going on twenty-seven – like a proper cocky teenager.
Welcome to Northern Wordsmiths 