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Showing posts from October, 2016

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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The End Of The Street

Jeff Watson hated Glasgow City Centre. Once it had been a vibrant place, filled with all sorts of shops, bars, cinemas, concert halls and a diverse variety of people but now, it seemed to be stagnating, rotting, perhaps even dying. The stench that breathed up from the sewers was foetid, the streets seemed filled with beggars and junkies, the shops closed and their doorways filled with rubbish and sleeping bags collected by the increasing number of homeless beggars. The shops that still existed seemed themselves as impoverished as the doorway dwelling poor. It was a dull grey bruise of a place, as if someone had turned down the colour saturation to be barely above a stark monochrome. He passed empty burger bar after empty burger bar, the rows of pound shops, shoe shops and sportswear shops, avoiding the obese and slovenly citizens, charity guilt mongers and living advertisers. “ Excuse me sir, do you mind if I ask who your mobile phone network is?” One grinning ginger l
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The Nyaff

Every town has its demons. Most of the netherworld denizens are, like the human citizenry, proles. They spend their days possessing whatever weak mind they can infiltrate and then killing a bunch of prostitutes before pissing off leaving their hosts to face the music. There are others who have higher callings and can create mass hysteria or even inspire wars. There were even a couple, so it was claimed, that could bring an end to the world itself. The Nyaff was not that ostentatious. In over six hundred years it had never once been caught, never once been banished or exorcised and yet it's death count had been steady and efficient all that time. The Nyaff wasn't in it for the death, it preferred the torment. It was, after all, conjured for specifically that purpose. It had been originally called into being as a curse. Shat into the material world with the worm-filled diarrhoea of a particularly aggressive West Highland terrier that had spent its days tormenting Seer Cruit
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Dramatis Personae

Though there was no sign of the slightest mist, foghorns wailed balefully along the banks of the Clyde. The night, instead, was clear as ice crystal, sharp as cut glass and above the stars gleamed like diamonds. The sound was no warning but a nautical addition to “the bells” a ritual ringing out of the old and ringing in of the new, Hogmanay was over, 1973 had arrived. Revellers up and down the city sang Auld Lang Syne at the top of their lungs. Most of them were pissed out of their minds well before the clock struck twelve. It was a night for celebration, in pubs and clubs; in flats and bedsits, in the terraced houses and the gable ends, people got together and sang, drank, told jokes and inevitably, fought. The cops were busy that night, the troubles over in Ireland had a way of manifesting on the West Coast of Scotland, especially after a gallon of lager and so Sectarian nonsense reared its retarded head as dimwits from the same cult knocked the living hell out
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Popular posts from this blog

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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