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Short Stories

I intend publishing free short stories in this section which I hope readers will enjoy.

'Jet' is the first thing I wrote five years ago and underlines my passion for greyhounds and anger at the way so many are treated as disposable commodities. It has been illustrated by a longstanding friend Ann O'Toole, who I think you'll agree has really enhanced the story with her visual interpretations of my words.

'Goldie' was the second story I wrote, set during WWII and the London Blitz. It tells the story of Tommy Taft and his greyhound Goldie who both embark on eventful journeys when the war impacts on their lives.

'Dapple' is set in the fictional Lancashire mill town of Dunley during the 1930's depression. The Fishwick family are like many others in the town, struggling to pay their way, then Dapple comes into their lives and things begin to change.

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Dapple

Souls of Scapa Flow

Goldie

Jet

Jet

Jet

Story: S.D. Read, Illustrations: Anne O'Toole

It was a cold, overcast November afternoon. The sky merged with the grey corrugated steel of the stand bordering the track on the home straight. Football goals stood bare of nets in the grassed middle of a white railed oval of sand where the greyhounds would run. A raw East wind scoured the scene, forcing...

Goldie

Goldie

5 Mar 2026

Tommy Taft was a big character in a little body. He was a scruffy bundle of tousled blonde hair, crumpled grey uniform and dirty knees. Tommy was eleven years old in the Summer of 1940, or, as he would loudly tell you, eleven-and-a-half. In fact, nearly everything Tommy said was loud, except of course...

Dapple

Dapple

1 Jun 2026

DAPPLE 1930 Edie Fishwick poked hard at the fire, trying to stab some life into the dying embers of a thin bed of coal. A few meagre flames flickered briefly in response, before disappearing up the chimney of the small terraced house. It was one of many seemingly huddled together against the cold of...

Souls of Scapa Flow

Souls of Scapa Flow

Souls of Scapa Flow

Prologue & Chapter 1

9th July 1917 Alex MacKay should have been asleep in bed. It was nearly twenty past eleven at night, yet he was sat cross-legged in rough grass sweeping binoculars greedily over an array of warships at rest in the Orkney twilight. He had a practised routine of artfully placing two pillows lengthways...