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Showing posts from March, 2018

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 Bibliophile

Clarence disliked having to travel into the city. The old town was like a sketch of its former self. People stopped shopping there just as the advertising screens began popping up all over the place, just as the public decided, once and for all, that shopping online was, somehow, more convenient.  Clarence assumed that they, like he, had little time for being treated like infants by con-men. The department stores lay empty, hollow. As he passed one he could see the dust on the empty shelves, a forlorn dummy staring at a wall. The only thing that seemed to be thriving were the coffee shops. The rows upon rows of empty restaurants made Clarence feel somewhat sad. The pubs had chased away their old regulars and put off tourists by offering all sorts of fun and games from quiz nights to bingo, Karaoke to Comedy. He guessed a lot of the pubs were struggling to stay open. In the doorways of closed down newsagents, in the stairwells of empty shoe-shops, in the entrances to boarded up b
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A Haunting Memory.

I had returned to Glasgow less than three months when the haunting first started, though it was a while longer before I realised that it was happening. I'd left London after an ugly breakup with my girlfriend at the time, Jessica. There's no real point in going over the details which led to our breakup, but needless to say that after it, all I wanted to do was clear my head and get as far away from London as possible. It is a predatory city, one that will swallow you whole if it gets a whiff of you being vulnerable or lonely. I moved to a flat in Battlefield which I shared with two other twenty-something guys, Brian and Clark. They were good lads. Clark even got me a job in the telecoms centre he worked at in internet customer support. Before long settled into my new life. Brian worked as an engineer for a heavy engineering plant firm and was often away, so most of the time it was just me and Clark in the flat. We shared a love of German motorik music and science-fiction
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Tír nAill: Finale

10. An hour. Norma knew that it was a slippery thing. Given too much attention it could drag on seemingly forever, but given too little it would vanish before one's eyes. She needed a plan, but had no idea where to start. Biting her lip she noticed the others just watching her silently and refused to allow them their victory. There had to be another way. She looked at them, shook her head in dismay and walked away. Her intent was to clear her mind, to check out the large room, perhaps tinker with the computers. She walked over to one of them, there was nothing but a blank white screen with a black rectangle flashing the words “system failure”. Immediately she recalled Geoff. Geoff could help, if he was still alive. She turned and quickly paced back to the group, she could hear the dog talking. “ It doesn't, and you can't.” was all she could make out. Norma wasn't interested in finding out what they were discussing so said “Tommy, I need the torch.”
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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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