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Legend Tripping

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  1. Most of the children of Carlin High School were engaged in the usual playground activities, girl gossiped rapidly sounding like a thousand busy typewriters; youthful first years laughed and chas ed each other around the yard, burning off energy; older kids from the rough end of town hid behi nd the toilets, smoking weed. Steven was sitting alone, perched on the fence like a hawk, watching all the normal mayhem when he spotted Simon Anderson take a nosedive onto the concrete. The boy just went white and dropped, and even though the other kids were making a godawful din, Steven definitely heard Simon’s skull crack like a heavy egg as it smashed onto the ground. The noise was a sickening, hollow sound that made his heart jump in his chest. He immediately jumped off the fence and rushed to see if the older boy was alright. In the seconds it took him to move to where Simon was, there was a large crowd around Simon, some girls were screaming, an older boy was shouting, “Get a tea
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Upon a Lane that Never Was.

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  “ Some view, eh?” Connor asks. It is indeed some view. Looking North we see the East-End of Glasgow below us. Closest is the old Mount Vernon Train station, but we can see across the dark slate rooftops of Broomhouse, Baillieston, Barrachnie, further, even out to the Campsies, behind which Stirling hides. To the South it stretches past Drumsagard all the way to East Kilbride. And over in the east the great white wind turbines rotate, like pale, relaxing totems. Below to the south east something catches my eye. I point at it, a strange symmetrical pattern like some kind of masonic symbol cut into the green with concrete. “ What’s that?” I ask Connor. He’s wearing a face mask - we both are- but I can see him smile as he follows the direction of my fingers and answers. “ Daldowie Crematorium. The whole area used be the grounds of Daldowie House. Family home of, get this, The Bogles. ” I laugh, thinking it’s a joke, but his eyes widen, daring me to tell him he’s t
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Sects in The City.

  1. The mere rudiments of invocation were all that remained necessary. A casual pirouette transformed her body into a set of compasses and the circle was drawn in one elegant movement, unbroken, almost perfect. The candles were lighted and the incense ignited, instantly billowing a pinkish grey fog with the scent of sandalwood. She took the ceremonial dagger in her right hand and slashed the palm of her left. The blood was collected in the silver chalice and then the preliminary banishments were uttered with the ripe blade glinting in the candlelight as it cut through the thick, scent-filled air. The barbarous names she incanted by rote, even though the meanings were well understood by her. This was a matter of expedience not devotion. Such haste was perilous, given the normally complex nature of such a performance. What she was doing was akin to dialling a number on a telephone while running through traffic. Unlike the phone, however, one could not simply apologise and hang up if co
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Ring Bang Skoosh

So what you do is get a 60a bus over to Duke Street from the City Centre. Keep going right along Duke Street until you get past the remaining houses and the industrial park. The bus will eventually take a second right at a large roundabout. You'll not be able to miss it. It's beside another industrial park. You'll want to get off the bus at the next stop and then wait for the 257A. They're not common, one every half an hour (if you're lucky) and only between 8 A.M. and 5.30 P.M. If you've missed it and have to wait you could do worse than Babs Café across the road. Go get something delicious to eat. Don't get me wrong her cuisine is part of the cultural dietary pandemic that's reduced life expectancy in the areas of the east end to that of cavemen, but her deep fried pizza slice on a roll with chips is well worth the fucking risk. Anyway, once you're on the 257A you'll head south east along an empty area for about three quarters of a mil
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Gross Domestic Product: 8

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Chapter Eight. It took the taxi almost half an hour to get through the West-End and up through the north of the city out into Milngavie. Some roadworks at the switchback had left the entire end of the town in one long traffic jam, according to the driver anyway. Pete was not impressed, not one bit. By the time he stepped out he’d stumped up twelve quid and his skin felt like it needed massaged by a crazed acupuncturist. The cold hurt was becoming too real for him to bear but he knew he’d just have to tough it out. He’d con Baird, or failing that, rob the place, get that stupid lamp and then he could relax, shoot up and have a nice long gouch. After that he’d go to Allerdyce and before long have another five grand in his pocket. That would give him nearly ten grand, enough to solve his problems. Enough to propel him out of Glasgow’s moribund gravitational pull once and for all. He just needed to keep it together for another hour or two. The house he stood outside looked
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The Scheme

Nineteen eighty nine, a number, another summer; sound of the funky drummer ubiquitous on the radio. Gordon Harper drummed his fingers against the wheel in time to the tune. It was a nervous staccato, no doubt about that. As he sat parked on Casgairt Road he wondered if he should just bolt. He'd a couple of grand left in his savings, and could be on the next flight to Chilé or Singapore, could be anywhere but here. He threw his cigarette butt out the window and immediately lit another. This was going to be a bad job, that became apparent as soon as Skinny's name was mentioned. When Dunkie mentioned that nutter he should have said “I'm out.” He didn't. No, he didn't want to look like a shitebag in front of the big boys. If he had any real stones he would have told Dunkie to take a fuck to himself. Instead he was sitting with a fucking shotgun under his seat waiting for that nutjob Willie Barr. Total... Fucking... Nightmare! Once more he sucked on th
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