Copyright Tricia McGill 2009* All Rights Reserved

An Aimless Ramble byTricia McGill
An Aimless Ramble by Tricia McGill
Verses and Un-Rhyming Prose by Tricia McGill

My collection of short stories

An Aimless Ramble
can be ordered

Along with
Verses and
Un-Rhyming Prose
    A Man Must Dream (A Villanelle)

Without a dream a man can’t survive
He must have purpose, somewhere to aim
A dream to follow will keep faith alive.

No one has the right to ever deprive
a man of his honour, his chance at fame
Without a dream a man can’t survive.

From deep held yearnings our dreams derive
No man on this earth will feel the same
A dream to follow will keep faith alive.

At heaven’s door one day he’ll arrive
and hope that God will cast no blame
Without a dream a man can’t survive.

Into his soul for purpose he’ll dive
and in the end have just his name
A dream to follow will keep faith alive

Hope will help flagging spirits revive
perhaps cast out any signs of shame
Without a dream a man can’t survive
A dream to follow will keep faith alive.


Poor Rosie

Miss Rosie Green put the bag of fruit on her desk and sighed as she looked again at the picture in the newspaper of a national sports’ hero. Once she’d been as agile and successful in sports. Glancing at her reflection, she frowned, feeling all of her fifty five years, as she pushed back her greying hair. Changing out of her sensible shoes into a pair of flats she put the black courts neatly under her desk, placing them precisely side by side. She straightened some papers, then looked up as the shop door opened.  A woman came in asking about a flat to rent, and it took Rosie fifteen minutes to find something in the files suitable for her.

Rosie went to put the electric jug on. She put two of her boss’s favourite biscuits on his saucer, and carried a cup of his favourite brew to Charles West’s office. She didn’t knock, but just went straight in, then dropped the cup and saucer and let out a blood curdling scream.

Elsie, who worked in the delicatessen next door, came running. She found Rosie in a crumpled heap on the floor. Papers and documents were scattered about the carpet and Charles West was slumped behind his desk. Elsie crept nearer to him and saw that a silver handled letter opener was in his back, to its hilt.

“My God!” Elsie helped Rosie up and into a chair. “I heard your scream. How did it happen? I’d better call the police.” She picked up the phone.

“It was such a shock, who would do such a thing?” Rosie kept mumbling in the same vein while Elsie gave the police instructions.

Detective Inspector Smith of the Homicide division wanted to know precisely the same thing when he interviewed Rosie a half hour later.

“Who would have been likely to go into your deceased employer’s office while you were out shopping, and knowing more about his associates than anyone else, who would you suspect would have a motive for killing him?”

“His ex-wife was in here yesterday.” Rosie dabbed at her eyes. “She’s bled poor Char...Mr West dry, but is always pleading for more. I’ve heard him tell her more than once that she’s bled the well dry. Then there’s George Patterson. He was in here yesterday too. He’s a shady character.” Primly she pursed her lips. “My guess is he’s a crook. I heard a sum mentioned; thirty thousand dollars, I think. But I have no idea what it was in reference to. Patterson was yelling at Mr West about a gambling debt—not Mr West’s I’m sure,” she hastened to add.

“He has a girlfriend too—one Kylie Savage.” Her face grew rigid and she grimaced as if the name was distasteful to say. “The little tramp’s pregnant. She kept coming in at odd hours begging him to marry her. I heard him tell her only two days ago that he had no intention of owning up to being the father of the child.” Rosie gave a nod of satisfaction.

“How long were you out of the office?”

“I went out at ten past eleven, and came back at half past. I had a customer in just before I found the body.” Her face crinkled and she buried it in her hankie.

“How well did you know your employer, and did you get the impression that he would get back with his wife?”

“Never.” Rosie shook her head vehemently. “She was a leech. And after working with him for ten years I knew Mr West as well as anyone.”

“Were you in love with him?” Detective Inspector Smith shot at her, and Rosie stared at him.

No,” she snapped, her face reddening.

I don't consider myself a poet--some of my verses don't rhyme--hence the title of this small collection.

These are just a tiny jumble of random thoughts put down over many years simply for fun
Tricia McGill Australian romance author