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Showing posts from May, 2017

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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On Pythius Street.

Clara was not impressed. She had been in Glasgow all of three weeks and considered it little better than some of the third world slums she'd been sent previously to do missionary work. Certainly the weather was worse, as was the food. The people were short and grey, many looked more like hobgoblins than people, with atrocious teeth and even worse fashion sense. Simon, who'd parents had moved to Utah from this blight of a city forty years beforehand took it all in his stride. The constantly grey, damp streets and grey, damp skies didn't seem to bother him, nor did the incomprehensible nasal speak of many of it's citizens. They were not tourists, he reiterated time and time again, they were here to save souls. Secretly Clara thought the poor bastards were already in damnation, and she was right there along with them. In three weeks the most common response to her and Simon had been an angry “fuck aff” followed by a door being slammed in their faces. This was not
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Lost Alone Along A Long Road.

1. Blood never really looks red under the sodium orange glow of the street lights . It bears a darker hue which was why Nathan Kirk thought it was something else. The elaborate pattern painted onto pavement bared little in common with the scrawling graffiti upon the rusted shutters of disused chemist ' s. There was a circle perimeter around the main body of work which appeared as a thick horizontal line bisecting the circle. This thick line had smaller elegant squiggles which waved and looped over and under the horizontal, back and forth, almost akin to the Celtic knot design but less symmetrical. Whomever had created the strange painting had not stuck around to hear any critiques of it, the street Nathan stood on was empty, of people, of cars, of successful businesses. While examining the patter n he had not noticed the street was bereft of sound, but it soon became uneasily apparent. No hissing echoes of night, no rapid concussive thuds of boy racers in distant cars, no t
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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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