This is an important step for OTS. A lot of hours have gone into this project and it has to make a return if we're to do any more.
Below are some samples of the 105 stories, all illustrated.
We hope you will enjoy these wee stories and share this post with others.
Aye, Jupiter, the wee feathered fellae in charge o' the clouds, decided it wis time tae crown a king o' the birdies. He sent oot a wee chirp o' an invite, tellin' them tae preen an' polish their wings, ready tae strut their stuff on a certain sunny morn.
Now, amongst the feathered hopefuls wis Jacquie, a cheeky wee blackbird wi' feathers duller than a haggis at the end o' a ceilidh. Seein' the flashy robins an' shimmerin' swallows, Jacquie knew his plain ol' coat wouldn't win any beauty contests. So, what did the crafty crow do? He waited till the rest o' the birdies flitted off, then scoured the banks o' the burn, gatherin' up the prettiest feathers his wee claws could grip. He stuck them all over himself, lookin' like a rainbow exploded on a kilt.
Come the big day, the birdies flocked tae Jupiter's throne, each struttin' their stuff like prize cockerels at a country fair. Jacquie, decked out in his borrowed finery, strutted even harder, thinkin' his disguise wis foolproof. He almost had it, Jupiter nearly cried "Crow King!", but then… disaster struck!
The other birdies, seein' through the feathered fib, squawked like a bagpipe orchestra gone wild. They descended on Jacquie, pluckin' an' proddin', till he was left standin' there, plain as day, a blackbird in borrowed feathers. Jupiter, nae fan o' cheatin', shook his head an' chirped aboot honesty bein' the best birdie-bling.
So, friends, Jacquie's tale is a wee reminder that borrowed beauty is like a haggis supper – tasty for a while, but soon leaves you empty an' ashamed. Embrace yer own feathers, however plain, an' let yer true colours shine, even if they're nae as flashy as a peacock's fan. Remember, Jupiter, an' everyone else, values a genuine chirp over a borrowed preen any day. So keep yer beak held high, Jacquie, an' sing yer own wee song, 'cause that's where the true beauty lies.
Moral: Yer ain feathers are aye better than borrowed braws. Fae trickery can bring a short-lived shine, but the truth will always be revealed. Be proud o' who ye are, true beauty shines from within.
Aye, a weary traveller, his boots dusty an' his belly rumblin', stood at the door, ready tae hit the road. He glanced at his trusty mutt, sprawled by the fire like a contented scone, stretchin' like a wee rubber band in the mornin' sun. "Hey, ya daft dug!" he barked, impatience tingin' his voice. "Quit yer yawnin' an' get a wiggle on! We've got places tae go, tales tae tell!"
But the dog just thumped his tail on the hearth like a wee drumbeat an' replied, soft as a whisper, "Ready as rain, master. It's you I'm waitin' for."
Aye, friends, the tale o' the weary traveller an' his loyal hound is a wee gem o' a reminder. Sometimes, the greatest journeys start not wi' rushin' feet, but wi' a patient wait, a trust in the rhythm o' the pack. An' who knows, maybe learnin' tae walk at the pace o' our furry companions, noticin' the sun on their backs an' the wag o' their tails, might just lead us tae paths unseen, stories unheard, the true treasures hidin' in the gentle pauses o' life.
So next time yer wanderlust kicks in an' yer boots itch for the trail, take a moment tae check on yer shadow, yer four-legged friend. Maybe they're not yawnin' at all, but waitin' patiently, ready tae guide you on a journey far richer than any map can show, a journey o' hearts, o' shared moments, o' the silent language o' loyalty an' love. Remember, sometimes, the most beautiful landscapes are the ones we discover at the pace o' a dog's trot, tail waggin' like a compass, pointin' not just north, but towards the deeper secrets o' the world, an' the warmth o' companionship that makes every journey, however long, a walk in the park.
Moral: Dinna bark louder than ye bite, mak sure yer ready for the journey afore ye even think about leavin'.
Och aye, imagine this: a puir fellae, a sailor tossed aboot by the storm, his claes in tatters an' his hair like seaweed, sprawled oot on the cruel sand. The ocean's roar has quietit, replaced by the tide's rhythmic whisper. He stirs, an' a wave o' bitterness washes ower him like the ane that smashed his ship. Wi' a clenched nieve, he shakes it at the endless blue horizon, his voice hoarse wi' anger.
"Curse ye, ye treacherous sea!" he cries, the words whipped awa' by the salty wind. "Yer surface smiles fair, like a bonnie lass at a ceilidh, but beneath it lurks a monster's hert! Ye lure us onto yer back, fill oor sails wi' false hope, only tae unleash yer fury whin we're weel an' truly at yer mercy! Whaur's the fairth in that? Whaur's the decency?"
Suddenly, the world shimmers, the air crackles wi' energy, an' the vast expanse o' the sea seems tae gather intae a figure. A wumman, tall an' strong as a cliff face, wi' hair like seaweed an' een that mirror the storm's fury, stands afore him. Her voice, whin it comes, is as deep an' auld as the ocean floor.
"Sailor," she booms, her words roarin' like thunder across the beach, "dinnae mistake my anger for treachery. By nature, I am as calm an' welcomin' as the green meadoes o' yer hameland. But the Winds… they are the fickle anes, the restless spirits that whip me intae a frenzy, twistin' my currents, raisin' my waves against my will."
She gestures towards the sky, her een flashin' wi' an eerie fire. "See them there, thae dancin' demons, forever whisperin' promises o' adventure, forever pushin' an' pullin' at my soul? They are the anes that turn my gentle caress intae a crushin' grasp, the anes that lure yer ships onto my back an' then dash them against the rocks in their endless game."
The Shipwrecked Man stares at her, his anger ebbing awa' like the tide. He sees, no a monster, but a bein' o' immense power, caught in a struggle aulder than time. A grudgin' respect stirs within him, a sense o' the shared dance between the elements, the delicate balance that can sae easily tip intae chaos.
"So it's the Winds, then," he mutters, the words unfamiliar on his tongue. "The anes that whisper o' faraway lands an' hidden treasures, that fill oor herts wi' wanderlust an' then abandon us tae yer wrath."
The wumman, the Sea, nods slowly, a hint o' sadness in her voice. "Aye, sailor. The Winds are maisters o' deceit, their voices seductive but their herts cauld. They play their games across my back, an' we, caught in the middle, maun dance tae their tune, for better or worse."
The Shipwrecked Man falls silent, ponderin' the weight o' her words. He looks at the endless sea, nae langer wi' fear or anger, but wi' a newfound awe. He sees nae just a treacherous enemy, but a powerful force, a wild creature bound tae the whims o' anither. An' perhaps, he thinks, perhaps learnin' tae understand the dance, tae read the whispers o' the Winds, might just be the key tae survivin' it.
Moral: Aye blame the surface, but the storm's the beast. Sometimes misfortune comes nae frae malice, but frae forces beyond control. Learn frae yer trials and nae be quick tae point fingers.
A scrawny Fox went scrootin' through the woods, his nose twitchin' like a kilt in a gale, when he stumbled upon a braw Boar sharpenin' his tusks on a sturdy tree trunk. "Aye, ya hairy hooligan!" the Fox squeaked, eyebrows shootin' up like antlers. "What's all this tusk-twiddlin' about? No hunters on the prowl, nae wolves howlin', nothin' but sunshine an' saplings."
The Boar grunted and paused in his tusk-takin' job. "Aye, wee feller," he rumbled, voice deep as a Highland drum. "But the moment danger bites at my tail, I'll need these tusks sharp as haggis knives. Nae time for polishin' when the hunt is on!"
Aye, friends, the tale o' the Boar an' the Fox is a wee gem o' wisdom for yer sporran pouch. Don't wait for the storm to sharpen yer swords, the mountain to climb yer legs, or the battle to train yer heart. Spend yer sunny days honing yer skills, buildin' yer strength, so when life throws a rogue boulder yer way, you're ready tae roll with it, tusks flashin' an' spirit fierce.
So next time you find yourself temptin' fate with a lazy nap when the sky's clear, remember the Boar. Keep yer tools sharp, yer mind nimble, yer spirit ready for the fray. Because true grit, like a well-polished tusk, shines brightest when the odds are stacked against you, an' that's when you show the world just what you're made of, eh?
Moral: A wee bit o' prep can save ye a heap o' bother. Sharpen yer tools afore the storm hits, bein' ready is half the battle.
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