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Showing posts from December, 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 Living Room.

Despite Malichar Street having recently been the beneficiary of some renewal schemes which turned the old ramshackle street into a trendy urban hub, the building at Number 65 was left untouched. It stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all the “gourmet” burger joints, designer boutiques and bars with pretentious names. It was an ugly, dirty building of the Victorian era, replete with rows of tiny boarded-up windows, rotting exterior paintwork and holes in the plaster that looked like the place had been shelled. Laughlin, who worked at one of those pretentious named bars -The Whistler's Redoubt- thought it an eyesore as he stared out at it every day through the smoked glass but there was nothing to be done. The council had marked the building “listed” which meant it was left for time to let it crumble. It was one of those addresses that was so out of place in such a hip area that it drew the eye; an incomprehensible brick lump amidst the aluminium and glass fronts. For six mon
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Bed Socks

She was finally rid of him. She couldn't believe her luck. As Gwen watched him walk out of the flat, bags packed, she felt elated, two fucking years she'd wasted on the rat and then he goes and fucks Karen? The two of them could burn in hell. He gave her a little hang-dog look as he turned the stairwell. She almost giggled. Gwen slammed the door shut in his sickening face, leant against it and laughed. It was an expression of pure relief. She'd felt him less as a boyfriend and more of a dead weight she carried, now he was gone, finally gone, she could get on with her life. First of all, she decided, she would clean the flat from top to bottom, to get rid of his lingering presence; the smell, mostly. Twisting her hair back into a ponytail she marched into the kitchen and from one of the drawers pulled out a roll of black bin bags and began, systematically, to remove all physical trace of the clown she'd lived with. His shitty pretentious fair-trade organ
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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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