A short story

Ken Preston

19 November 2023

I wrote this short story many years ago, before I discovered The Preston Curse. [1] It is a mixture of fact and fiction. I will leave you to work out what is what.

This creative writing as therapy helped for a while, but ultimately I would succumb and seek professional help. I am of the opinion that a consistent act of creativity, the art of thinking and making and doing, is essential for mental and emotional wellbeing.

But sometimes prescribed medication is the answer too.

So, I wrote this story, and it’s not particularly good but neither is it bad. And if you’ve read my Substack posts up to this point, you may well find it rewarding to read this one too.


The first time I saw my father after he died he was lying in his coffin at the funeral home, family and friends standing nearby in small, tight groups and talking in hushed whispers.

The second time I saw him, some twenty-two years later, he was sitting in a café, smoking a cigarette in defiance of the smoking ban and drinking a mug of tea the consistency of soup.

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