Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • When I saw the swans flying in formation over the loch this morning, my mood was lifted from brooding on shards of memories:-

    I returned from parent imposed exile when I was nineteen to find the rug I had painstakingly made by pulling a tuft of wool through hundreds of holes, with a latchet hook, being used by my mother as a bath mat. It was mouldy from constant use.

    My mother had used the smart leather handbag that I had bought with my first wage and stuffed it so full that it was scruffy and shapeless.

    My mother had thrown out my diaries.

    My mother would not tell me why my turquoise and blue striped coat, that had taken me a month to save up for, had disappeared.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.