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Showing posts from July, 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

Drought.

The long, hot summer roasted the city and by the end of August the entire place reeked of petrol fumes, sweat, tarmac and above all, putrefaction. The heat had meant the water treatment facilities and the dumps on the outskirts had emitted a constant, languid stink which casually drifted into town in the warm lazy breezes of evening. I'd taken a call for a pick up at Glasgow Airport. Turned out that the fare was an old school mate, Duncan Sim. He had always been a dodgy fucker, even at school, and this had earned him the name and reputation of “Mental Dunkie.” Duncan was a criminal, mainly a drug dealer as far as I knew. I didn't have a problem with that. He recognised me instantly, though it took me a second to place his face. Dunkie looked tanned, healthy, better than I remembered him. He'd spent three months on Gran Canaria, officially. He was there getting clean which, considering all the shit that pours through that little drug port, was hard to believe but appar

Victor 3-9

The moon was high overhead, jaundiced and sickly. It shone down on the earth like a cold, bright searchlight. Mike looked at his watch. 11:35p.m. He looked up at the clock to confirm it and having it confirmed, sighed. Time was stranger at night, it seemed slower, as if the time between the tick and tock became longer as the night went on. Sometimes between three and four felt like the hour that would never end and Mike often wondered, rather feared, what it would be like to be trapped in that hour as the flow of time hardened to a solid stop and one became bound in an infinite, timeless moment forever, like a fly in temporal amber. He'd heard others say a similar thing about their shifts. “Night can be elastic or concrete. ” one of the other guards had told him. Most people thought security guards were losers and, to be fair , most of them were fuck-ups but Mike had known his fair share of would be philosopher poets amongst the drunken sectarian bigots, bitter divorcees

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