To my younger self

A letter of advice from writer Russ Cavanagh to his younger self.

A letter to my younger self

Dear me,

You are eighteen. What could I possibly tell you?

Well, let me start. I'll try to be brief:

Alcohol, nicotine and other toxins will bring ruin into your life and into your relationships. Therefore, abstain as much as possible. And pay far less attention to that member that's warring between your legs - difficult, I know. You are far more than just an animal, fun though that may seem at times.

Find ways to respect your parents, and not to blame them. Like you, they are casualties of this world - though not entirely helpless - trying to negotiate their own lives. Perhaps also try to forgive your brother (who will die young, by the way).

Take more care in picking your friends. Test them first and, if they pass, accept them for who and what they are. Stay humble but be confident.

Don't be in a hurry to marry. Pick wisely, if at all, and learn to be devoted, loving and contented. As for having children ... well, I'm the last person in this world to offer such advice.

Regards career and other ambitions, listen to your heart and use your brain. You have a good side to you. You are kind, clever, creative and intelligent.

Keep your ears open and your mouth shut, particularly when among strangers. Be aware that the world will tempt you at every turn. Don't get embroiled in matters you have no stake in.

Lastly, as if by way of summary, I urge you to find a KJV (you'll figure out what that is). Read at least all of what King Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes, and what St. John wrote in his Gospel (where there's great comfort, especially in chapters 14 through 17). God is already helping you through, though you don't yet realize that. When you reach out to him your life will work out better. Acknowledge him in everything you do and he will direct your path. And know that your life is a vapour, that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.

If you can follow the above advice your ride won't be nearly as rough as mine has been. There's much more I could share, but none of it you either need or want to know.

Don't be afraid. You are more loved than you realize.

All the best, young man.

Please can you tell your father

Please can you tell your father - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh Before a spell as a marine commando in his younger days the old man was an apprentice boat builder. But now the hospital was refusing his requests for a tot of rum. "Mr Cameron, please will you tell your father he can't have alcohol in here?" the doctor implored. The old boy must have thought he'd ended up in a hospice or some sort of palliative care. Ross had a word with him. A crestfallen silence followed. Visiting time now over, Ross promised to come again tomorrow. The old man gave a knowing stare at his only remaining son. "Take care of yourself," he said. These were the final words Ross heard from him. By the following day his dad had slipped from consciousness. A nurse suggested Ross just sit with him. Listening to the death rattle, he was remin...

Back from the old road

Back from the old road - Flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh My stomach had rumbled steadily over the past hundred or so miles. There was nothing for it, I'd have to find somewhere to pull in and eat. As luck would have it I saw just the place - a little truckers restaurant sat back from the old road. Inside and out cane seats sat under clean formica tabletops. There were no other customers around, maybe because it was by now way past lunchtime. A coffee machine hissed from the kitchen and a radio played hits from yesteryear. Soon a man wearing an apron appeared and took my order. As I tucked in to the generous portion of ham and eggs, followed by pancakes drowning in maple syrup and ice cream, the man told me how his family had opened the place the previous century. He said business became tight a few years ago when the local plant, a big employer, relocated south. "My nam...

Glasgow Pride 2069 | Dystopian flash fiction

Glasgow Pride 2069 - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh Firm friends Big Rod and Roger the Pole met up at the 2069 Pride event in Glasgow. It was a sparse affair, turnout being lower than at any time in living memory. 'Ooh, Big Rod ... Lovely to see you again darling ... Mwah!' said Roger, kissing Rod's wrinkled face. 'Hello Roger, darling. You're looking handsome as ever,' Rod lied, noting the other now used an albeit stylish walking stick. 'How long is it now, Rod?' 'I beg your pardon?' 'How long have we been coming here to Glasgow Pride?' replied Roger, adding, 'Silly boy!' 'This will be my fortieth year at the parade. You?' 'Yes, about the same for me, dear.' 'I see the Church of Scotland float is leading this year,' said Rod, proudly showing Roger he still had his beloved 2029 Pride scarf. ...

MAN MADE FLASH FICTION

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