Welcome to “The Never Ending Story”.

Please note: to participate you must be an MLitt or Phd student on Glasgow University's Creative Writing course.

How it works:

Read the entries to date. Write the next section - no shorter than one sentence and no longer than 500 words. Send it to us at fromglasgowtosaturn@gmail.com We examine it for spelling or punctuation errors or anything horrendously libellous. We then publish it with your name alongside. At the same time we post your section on The Hub and invite the next section to follow it. These should arrive in your university email direct from The Hub.

The Never Ending story will be run more fluidly than the rest of the magazine, published as and when entries arrive. We will also GUARANTEE PUBLICATION on a first come first served basis.

Entries should be no longer than 500 words but can also be considerably less. This is designed as an experiment and as an exercise in fun.

In the unfortunate event of two fantastic pieces of writing arriving simultaneously it may be possible to publish more than one strand to the story.

You will find the starter piece below.

Anything goes!


The Never Ending Story


Mr Trump parked his newly washed car near the corner of the street between a rusty camper van and an over-filled skip. His briefcase rattled disconcertingly when he lifted it from the passenger seat so he set it back down and took a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of his splendidly smart suit. He mopped his brow and re-adjusted his smile in the rear view mirror.
        “Come on, Tommy!” he whispered to himself. “Done this a few times! Easy peasy, lemon squeazy!” And he allowed himself a small chuckle.
        The pavement was hot under his new leather-soled shoes. He tapped his fingers on the roof of his car and strode in a way he hoped exuded confidence towards number thirty-three, being careful not to let his briefcase bang against his leg. Of course, there would only be dogs and kids in the street at this time of day, so really there was nothing to worry about.
        Number thirty-three was a large semi-detached, and one that had seen better days. The wisteria had long since strangled the roses and had made its way unhindered towards the guttering above the second floor. It was a house no-one would notice, squeezed between two others in similar states of dilapidation, bent beneath the glare of the sun. Perfect. So like the last time. Mr Trump smiled fondly at some distant memory and knocked smartly on the dusty old door.
        He checked his tie in the circle of glass at the door’s centre, glad of the meagre shade offered by the door’s small overhang, and waited patiently, his most Godly, most compassionate smile, lurking around his lips.
Two dark green curtains on the other side of the round window parted briefly to reveal a face full of wrinkles, craggy with suspicion, long lines gauged in the cheeks and lips of faded blue. The eyes were dark and piercing. The curtains fell shut.
        “Go away,” said a voice.
        “But, my dear,” said Mr Trump, his mouth brushing against the glass, “I have something important for you. An invitation.” He stepped back slightly from the door and wiped some dirt from his lip. He hoped she might see him properly, and rearranged his kindness accordingly, but the curtains didn’t move. He thought however that he did see, just out of the corner of an eye, some movement in an upper window, but perhaps it was the reflection of a passing bird. He was momentarily disconcerted, but reassured himself he had done all the usual research. He was, after all, on top of his game, at the height of his powers as a young but not too young, intelligent, white male. Mr Trump waited only a moment longer before he stepped back to the door and put his ear as close as he could get it to the glass without actually touching it.
        “Get your ear away from my door!” said the voice, sharp now, no messing.
        “I’m from the church,” he said. “I was wondering …”
        “Go away.”
        “I was wondering if your insurance was up to date?”
        “My insur …Go away!”
        Mr Trump consoled himself with the knowledge, born of experience that the toughest ones were always the easiest ones in the end.

Continued by Maria di Mario:

He would come back tomorrow.

As he walked down the dusty path he noticed a child crouched in the long grass of the garden next door. She was only maybe nine or ten, long thin legs and a wild tangle of dirty blond hair. Two brown eyes watched him suspiciously, darting from his face to the briefcase and back again.

      “Hello there!” He affected a cheery tone, although somewhat disconcerted by the knowledge that the entire exchange had been observed. The child said nothing.

      “Lovely day to be out playing in the garden,” he offered. The child still remained silent. He was beginning to sweat again. Her eyes flickered again to the briefcase, but her expression was hidden by her hair. Why am I still standing here? he wondered. It was absurd, but for some reason he felt as though the child could see him for what he really was, and he wanted a sign, a word, something, to let him know that she suspected nothing.

      “Playing hide and seek, are you?” He took a step towards her. She opened her mouth and began to scream, one long, continuous note that split the silence of the summer afternoon.

2nd continuation by Euan McClymont:

Panic, that was his first reaction. He ran up the path, trying to think to himself of how one comforted a young girl. He placed his hands down on top of the low white fence and leaned over. Still came the scream. “There there”, he said softly, “I didn’t mean to alarm you”. Why was she reacting like this? A strong reaction was never good, he had learned that. He was supposed to put people at their ease. He must be doing something wrong. Instinctively, he vaulted over the fence. He came up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, attempted to look calm. But still the scream ��" piercing the stillness of the air, chaos amongst balance, action amongst rest, like a human alarm that couldn’t be switched of. “Please”, he tried again, “it’s alright.”

      He knew that if this continued much longer, someone was bound to come out and investigate. And what could he say to them? Your first time in a neighbourhood, you didn’t want to be noticed too much, didn’t want to do anything to put people’s backs up, block you working your way into their confidence. If on his first trip he got noticed as the man who made a child cry, that would be him finished, he would have to try another part of town. What if the woman from next door were to come back out? He’d already made himself unpopular there. There was nothing for it, he would have to bail, and quickly.

      But already as he made to turn, a man was at the door. Tall, late twenties, and disgruntled looking. “Hoi, what’s going on?”, he barked out. Mr Trump froze, the child continuing to emit her shrill yell beside him. The panic within rose to fever pitch, but then suddenly it was replaced by something else: an idea, a flash of how to turn this awkward situation to his advantage.

      “I was er, I was just passing and I noticed your daughter here’s had a bit of a nasty fall, thought I’d check she’s ok.” The man looked unconvinced.

      “Em, is that true? Are you alright?”. The scream ended, as sharply as it had begun, and now it was the child’s turn to look confused. “D-daddy?”. She looked up intently at her father, as if trying to formulate the right reply. But Mr Trump knew better than to let the situation slip away from him. He pushed his hands against her shoulders and began to propel her up towards the door.

      “She’s bumped her head, she’s a bit confused. We’d really better get her inside and have a look at her, check that she’s alright.” And before the man could reply he had pushed the child through the doorway. This was the start. It tended to be a bit harder with a man than a woman, but an in was in. Once you were over that threshold, you were well on your way to having them under your control.


To be continued.... by you!
Please send entries to fromglasgowtosaturn@gmail.com.