Wee Fictions

Facebook down, 7th March, 2012

2012-03-07T08:50:00.000+02:00

I haven't been able to access Facebook here in Greece since early this morning. It seems that it's not just Greece - it could be all Europe, it could be global. Looking at the tweets on the 'facebook down' sites is interesting. Most are humorous ('more time for coffee'/maybe we'll get some work done'/'the end of the world is nigh!'), but some people are beginning to voice concerns that this might have been caused by hackers.

One Absorbent Parasite Per Song by Andrew McCallum Crawford

2012-03-06T10:15:00.000+02:00

He picked up the phone. ‘Neh?’ he said.

‘Cut the crap, Dave,’ said the voice on the other end. ‘Speak English.’

This was all he needed. He looked nervously round the room. That hunted feeling. The shutters were closed. ‘How’s it going, Joyce?’ he said.

‘Not good,’ she said. What a surprise. ‘You going down the Astoria?’

‘Don’t think so,’ he said. It was a quick decision.

‘Could you lend me a thousand?’ she said. ‘Just so I can get a Guardian and a coffee.’

Yeah, right. He barely had enough for the rent and she was asking him for a loan? She still owed him from the last time. She was into him for a lot more than a thousand drachmas.

‘Love to help you out, Joyce,’ he said. ‘But like I say, I won’t be in the Astoria.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Another git cramps my lifestyle.’

This story has just been published in the March edition of the Scottish literary arts and culture journal, New Linear Perspectives. To read it in its entirety, click here.

Mr Johnson

2012-03-04T12:06:00.000+02:00

It was just off Byres Road, a cocktail bar. Popular with would-be pop stars and television presenters. Beautiful people. John, balding, in bottle-end specs and with a jumper tied round his waist, threaded his way through the crowd. Sniggers from the patrons. They didn't know John, not like we did. They didn't know he was the coolest man in the room. If they had, they'd have been all over him like flies.

Dirty Little Secrets

2012-03-03T22:29:00.000+02:00

The first time is the worst, as if you have demolished something that took years to build. You are engulfed by guilt, a wave of it. But nothing has fallen down. The guilt is still there, though. You do it again; there is a rationale. Mathematics - percentages, fractions. A problem halved, but you can never share it. It becomes a habit. The incidence increases while the fractions become smaller. You get to the point where you look forward to it, you enjoy it. You realise you are hooked. There is no going back now. Why should there be? You consider it your due. As for the guilt, that has tended to zero.

Grangemouth Dialectic

2012-03-02T11:58:00.000+02:00

Ah leaned back, ready tae pit the bit in if ae tried anythin. Ae didnae. Ae ran oot the door, greetin, tryin tae choke it back, tae keep it quiet. Ae's jaikit wis hingin oaf ae's shoodirs.

Edinburgh Departures

2012-02-29T23:06:00.000+02:00

They were dressed in black. Corporate Bohemian. They could have been mistaken for a couple. She talked incessantly, her coffee cup at her lips. She was being herself, he guessed. He had spent the day trying desperately to be something other than what he was, trying to be something she might want, something more Corporate than Bohemian. Her lips were moving, but he couldn't hear. His own voice was loud in his head. Don't leave. Not yet. Please. She placed the cup on its saucer. 'I'd better go through,' she said. He embraced her. It wasn't like the last time, twenty years before, when he was the one who was leaving, when she had begged him to stay as he wiped tears from her eyes. 'I wish I'd had kids with you,' he said, but it was too late. She was gone, turning the corner into Security, the place where they check for things you shouldn't be carrying.

The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories - Andrew McCallum Crawford

2012-02-15T11:58:00.000+02:00

A series of six short stories about the complex relationship between a son and his father.

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

The stories in this collection were not written in the order in which they appear here; they certainly were not conceived as part of a continuous narrative. However, I have decided to bring them together because of the chronology and themes which, it turns out, run through them. Please bear in mind that this is in no way a novella or novelette. It is a collection of short stories, and each story stands or falls on its own, as short stories must.

REVIEWS

A beautifully written portrayal of things felt but not said. - Carol McKay

Andrew's new collection is like finding a flower sprouting out of cracked concrete - it's unexpected and he's yet little known.......eminently readable. - Steve Alker

There are no great tragic outpourings; tragedy is a very personal experience, marked by memories of seemingly trivial things......But, when recollected, they have the resonance of major life events, signifying much more than their surface suggests. The stories convey the fragmentation of life, its refusal to cohere into a constant flow, the power of memories and the helplessness we feel before them. - Bill Kirton

I've had the honour of publishing other works by Andrew McCallum Crawford and I hope that you seize the opportunity to read this moving collection of stories. - Amy Burns

The book is available for purchase here and here.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Brian Hill

2012-02-14T08:18:00.000+02:00

Welcome to My Life, Tattoo

In the wide mirror I sat, a chain around my wrist, as blue as the sky, on my arm, a net, running up the skin, reticulated. Over time, my eyes had become watery and ill-defined, just as the tattooed skin had blurred, decade by decade. So, too, the memories they stood for, feathered at the edges, merging. Tattoos: moments scratched beneath the surface. As if memory alone was not enough.

I put my shirt back on, covered up my illustrated past. Most days I lived without it bothering me. But today was St Valentine’s and I remembered. The first cut is the deepest. Like the song.

I actually claimed the Who inspired my first tattoo, from their song of the same name. It was almost a complete lie. No, I did it for love. Unrequited, as it turned out. Unacknowledged. I pulled up the sleeve on my left arm. On the inside, just above the elbow, where I could keep it hidden: tattoo, my secret love.

Going on seventeen to my eighteen, she was pretty, fair, and I was, what, still a boy? I longed for her at a distance. I decided to have her name embroidered on my flesh, in a heart, with a crude lighting bolt, my indelible love, just out of sight, just short of painful.

It would have remained secret, but for a word from someone else. She confided, ‘Anne really likes you. She’s just shy, that’s all…’ Encouraged, I walked on air and my tattoo throbbed with the memory of its bloody making.

Valentine’s Day came. I had a card. Just the one. In the café that evening, Baz, Anne’s brother sat across from me. Pure chance. Out of the blue, he said, ‘I’m heading back to the house. Anne’ll be there… You don’t mind?’ On the way, he added, ‘I’ll drop you off, then I’ve to get Lynn. Catch you later.’

Alone with Anne, conversation circled the unsaid. Courage was hard to find. But I found it. I got the words out. ‘Did you send me a Valentine card?’
‘No’ she replied.

All the things I could have said, all the things I could think of now, escaped my stupid tongue. Where was, ‘I think you did…’? Where, the lie, ‘I sent you one…’? Where, even, ‘I wish you had.’? No, ‘I love you’. No, ‘See me, feel me, touch me… heal me’. ‘Oh’ I said.

Baz and his girlfriend came back to find us sitting in unimaginable silence. Quizzical glances, shrugs. Love was history so I had to leave. In time, ‘Anne’ became ‘Mary-Anne’ across the tattooed heart. 'Mary-Anne with the Shaky Hand', another song by the Who. Another lie.

In the mirror after so long, I remembered it. I remembered all the tattoos that followed and the life they led me. In the blue glass, the bluer haze of my skin was a mist, like the past. I buttoned my shirt up to cover everything. My own hands were shaking.

* * *

Brian Hill is designer and filmmaker living in the wilds of Moray. He was, and still is, a founder member of Brian and the Brains and has also been known as the rhyme-slinger, Hilly cunctator, the cartoon cowboy, and latterly the planetarium poet. In between he has teased a living in the voluntary sector, designed for money and made tiny movies. He did have something published once and has written (and performed) many poems on astronomy, the cosmos and our heathen past, usually in complete darkness. His last public work was a voice over and short poem for Gill Russell’s Long Wave installation at the Clan Donald Centre in Skye, late 2010.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Jim Murdoch

2012-02-13T22:24:00.000+02:00

The Linguist

(For B.)

Though she could converse in French

and German

you could see she was not a native:

She couldn’t think in French

or feel it,

nor could she understand me:

O, she knew all about the language

of love

but so much is lost in its translation.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Jay Passer

2012-02-11T17:41:00.000+02:00

ROCK AND ROLL

He didn’t want to cover Big Railroad Blues because his favorite porno featured the song while two women did the deed. He complained that I never had enough toilet paper in my bathroom. When we’d take a break to smoke and drink, he’d sit on the edge of his stand-up bass, a French model over a hundred years old, which he paid 15 grand for. The seams started to split, and that was it, repair was necessary. We went out drinking, full of vanity and lies, imagining our band ruling the world. It was more about liquor and drugs and fantasy. Rock and roll is like that, though we were, in actuality, a folk-blues project. He insisted on a female accompaniment – some chick bartender he had the hots for. She told me she loved my songs. Held my arm traversing the street after practice. The guy, he didn’t dig that. Drank too much, blathered foolishly, insulted our server at the bistro before refusing to tip. All the while pawing at our new singer like a ravenous dog. When he went to relieve himself she confided to me that at her bar, he was a sort of fool that the clientele considered the equivalent of a town drunk. But boy could he play the stand-up bass, a saving grace (till I heard it on tape).

* * *

Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since the 1980's. He makes a living as a cook. Two chapbooks of his poetry are due out in 2012.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Gordon Urquhart

2012-02-10T22:09:00.000+02:00

Lost the plot

Heard you laughing,
Climbing the stairwell with Ewan
West Maitland St. on a sunny afternoon
Your freckled shoulder
White banded, I would rest my head there for 20 years
And counting…

But now I think you’ve lost the plot
we should get shot of these kids and live in a barge in the Midi or

something.

* * *

Gordon Urquhart is a Scoattish Heelander living in Zambia, where his short attention span attracts less attention. He likes making wee films about animals, portmanteau electronic music, his children, Inverness Caley Thistle, history and the bittersweet prospect of the death of capitalism. Though she gets irritated by his sarcasm, he loves his wife. He thinks he isn't nearly sarcastic enough.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Christopher Barnes

2012-02-08T22:51:00.000+02:00

Ideal Couple

Unblurred to one and all

Spoiled bodies

Ridden by each-word-a-blow tempers,

Thundering outhouse, porch and stairway.

When they’re unlatched

Ringside seaters squinny.

He swigs hole-and-corner methadone

Backstage of bins

While she drags the truth of her face

Into see-red mania.

* * *

Christopher Barnes' first collection, LOVEBITES, is published by Chanticleer Press. He is a participant stem cell research writer with www.stemistry.com and reads each year at Scotland's Callander Poetry Weekend. He has also written an arts review for Peel Magazine.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Andrew McCallum Crawford

2012-02-06T22:53:00.000+02:00

Gimlet

A cracking sound. A crack and a jolt. He opened an eye. It must have been his head off the step. Marble. There was no pain. How did he get here? He’d climbed three flights and he was outside his gaff. He leaned over and dug the key out of his pocket. It was buried under a wad of coins and banknotes.

The place, in darkness, stank of old shoes. He managed to open the balcony door. He staggered to the mattress and collapsed. Old shoes and newsprint. Joss sticks.

The Weeping Song.

He reached over and pulled the phone out of the wall.

Oh, Matt.

Pissed again.

Shards of light through the shutters. Fuck. The daily interior. This would have to stop. He was aware of the problem. It was simple. Whatever money he made, he drank. That was it. In a nutshell. He liked getting pissed. Is that so bad? It was a stage and it was almost at an end. It couldn’t go on much longer. Not this. Not living like this in a flat where the only furniture was a mattress on the floor and a kitchen like a bombsite. The Single Man left to his own devices. He was clean, though. He wasn’t a tramp.

What was the alternative?

He felt better after three Paracodol and a shave. He did some reps with the dumbbell. No point getting fat. He felt strong. Arms of iron. He knew how to look after himself. In this life, no one else did it for you. He rinsed the glass under the tap and added gin. Up to the brim with lime juice, that diluting stuff. Neat.

It was too cold to sit outside. He parked himself next to the stove and fished a couple of coins out of the tangle of notes. It was better to pay like this. It was easy to lose track. He wasn’t a daytime drinker, not in the real sense. Maybe it was a matter of time. He pulled an old Guardian off the shelf. Yanni threw him a pen. Araucaria. Fuck that. He turned to the quick crossword. Alan’s writing; he insisted on using small letters. Matt finished it in a matter of minutes.

Then the fidgeting started. He asked Yanni what day it was. Saturday. He had enough cash for another week. Plus he was due dole money. He was trying not to touch it, though, save it up till the end of the year then go in and collect it in a oner. ‘Husbanding the cash flow’ some idiot had called it. He’d see how things went. Someone had phoned during the week asking about privates. They were getting desperate. The results were out and they needed to take resits. He could hike the price, that would be an idea. Not too much, though. He didn’t want to price himself out of the market. He couldn’t remember which genius had come out with that line, but he supposed it made sense.

There was plenty of work. He just couldn’t be arsed doing it.

Alan pretended to be annoyed about the crossword. He brought over the tavli. It gave you something to do other than talk. ‘Fancy making it interesting?’ said Matt, and promptly took him for a fiver. They sat over the board, smoking, contemplating the mess of red and white counters. Alan suddenly jerked upright and pressed his face to the window. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said. Matt looked outside. Nick Cave walked past, a girl on his arm. They were both laughing. ‘Did you see that?’ said Alan.
Matt waved at Yanni. 2 beers. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Lanky, eh?

He got a toasted sandwich and went back to the flat. He could feel that thing descending on him, as it always did at this time of day, just as the sun was going down. It had nothing to do with the beer. He’d been hoping the beer might stave it off. Analysis. Examination. The maudlin exploration of the self. Garbage. The facts didn’t need much working on. She came over here. You followed her. It didn’t work out. She left. You’re still here. What’s the point? There’s no point. What are you going to do? Stay here. You can’t go back there because you’ve been here too long. You’re a stranger here and a stranger there. In Limbo. You sleep most of the day and go out barring it every night. You drink. You drink. It’s got nothing to do with forgetting. Memories are sacred, no one can take them away from you. If they tried you’d kill them. You drink because you like it. You like that feeling. You like that lack of feeling. You like that numbness.

The bar. 4am. Alan’s there. Yeah, you. Good looking. Looking good. Lanky. Not Nick Cave. That singer, what’s his name, Suede. Cocky bastard. A hit with the ladies, that’s what they say, but you aren’t someone who brags. I like your style. You know how to keep your mouth shut. There’s no side with you. No bullshit, no trying to be something you aren’t.

‘An Amstel,’ you shout. ‘And a Gimlet for Matt.’

I open my eyes. The place is heaving. Dancing all over the place. Someone bangs into me, but it’s the way things are, I’m used to it. There’s none of that macho stuff. If you want to be macho you ask something if she’s interested and if she is she is. Like Alan. Like me. I’m fit. I’ve got arms of iron. That’s it. Everything is here and now. There’s no. What’s it called? It’s something that happens. No strings. No stories. You do it, it’s over, move on.

The Weeping Song. The last song of the night. Time to go somewhere. Where? Time to go. The record spins on the deck. Focus. The only light is the light on the needle, searing the vinyl. The vinyl bobs. Focus on the light, but it’s moving. This is the Weeping Song. I raise my glass. I look at it closely. I examine it. Maybe it holds some kind of secret; the answer to a question I haven’t thought of. The contents are emerald, precious, glinting in that tiny light, the only light in the bar, the only light in the world.

Your voice is in my ear. ‘We’re all avoiding something,’ you say. A kiss on the side of my head – I give myself up to it. I tap the rim of your bottle with the bottom of my glass. It’s a gesture I’m comfortable with. It’s a gesture I like. It feels good, like something shared, like something I’m looking for. It feels like love.

* * *

This story was first published in Spilling Ink Review.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Jim Murdoch

2012-02-03T12:58:00.001+02:00

THE BEDROOM

The Bedroom In Summer

Returning to an unmade bed

during the sixth hour

there seemed to me

a shifting calm

flowing through those places

where our bodies met.

Between thin shadows

cast by white shutters

echoes of bells and

familiar sounds

like merging rivers.

The Bedroom In Autumn

It felt older.

But so did we.

And the rhythm of life was slower.

Even the bells hung

in the cooler air

to open the way for echoes past.

Now the fading shadows

reach out to the tired bed

as if just to touch us one last time.

The Bedroom in Winter

Why is it so cold and as empty as a shroud?

All the life has fled from here,

there's nothing left but shadows of the past.

The bed is still here, uncovered, and I miss you

though the bells no longer peal.

I was looking for some sort of testimony to love

but it was never more than a bed, was it?

The Bedroom in Spring

(for Jeanette who I made cry)

And in a moment of silence

between the two great silences

we drew each other close to try and show

what words alone could not reveal.

And in that room, upon that bed

surrounded by so much remembered love

we understand without a word

that one day we too would return.

* * *

Jim Murdoch lives just outside Glasgow. His poetry has appeared in small press magazines on both sides of the Atlantic for nearly forty years and now, of course, his most recent work can be found online. He has recently published a collection of poetry entitled This Is Not About What You Think in addition to two novels. A third, Milligan and Murphy, an expression of his love of the works of Samuel Beckett, has just been published. You can read more about him on his blog and website.

The Lovers on Wee Fictions - Roberta Gould

2012-02-01T09:57:00.000+02:00

The Fun of It

Having the zest of desire thwarted

she throws a ripe pear to the ceiling

which splatters only a bit

and does not drip

causing her one and a half

night stand

to righteously rise from the bed

and leave as if baby were dirty

or born with less than a brain

and thrashing around

just for the fun of it

* * *

Roberta Gould's 10th book, Invisible Mountain, Woven Thunder, is out as a manuscript. Her previous books include Louder than Seeds, Pacing the Wind, Not By Blood Alone, Only Rock and In Houses with Ladders. Her work has appeared in many poetry magazines. More information and poems can be found on her website: robertagould.net. She blogs at http://robertagould.wordpress.com/

Call for submissions - The Lovers

2012-01-31T12:11:00.000+02:00

February is The Lovers month on Wee Fictions. We are looking for poetry and short stories (maximum 500 words). You know what we like. Submissions to andrewmccallumcrawford@hotmail.com.

from a work in progress

2012-01-31T08:57:00.000+02:00

There it is again. Tapping, but more urgent this time; knocking. He tells himself it is a dream, but when he opens the door she is there, in a bright yellow ski jacket zipped up to her chin. Her eyes meet his then flick down to his shoulders, his legs, his shoulders again, his feet, his neck. Anywhere but his face. Her expression. Her lack of expression, as if she doesn’t like what she sees, as if she’d been expecting something better.

‘Come in,’ he says.

Canal Basin, Linlithgow – 31/12/2012, evening

2012-01-28T21:38:00.000+02:00

A barge tied up on the opposite bank. Its name is Leamington. I smile, but it’s all right, it’s dark, there’s no one else around. The spelling is close, so close. There is an advert on the side – Self Drive Hire. A smaller barge, like an island with a Christmas tree, is in the middle of the canal. The lights are on. This smaller barge is drifting to and fro. As I watch, however, I realise that it isn’t drifting. It is trying to reach a third barge, which is tied up at the far right of the basin. The name of this barge is Victoria. The barge with the tree will never reach the barge called Victoria. Something unseen, submerged, something not as prosaic as an anchor, is holding it back.

Leamington/Self Drive Hire/ the barge with the tree/Victoria.

Sometimes it isn’t difficult to imagine a poem, or, at least, the bones of a story.

Interlitq - The International Literary Quarterly - 'Norwood Junction' by Andrew McCallum Crawford

2012-01-19T19:33:00.000+02:00

I am so pleased to have this story in Interlitq.

Norwood Junction

They were in a pub south of the river. Well south. Almost Croydon. Danny was staying at his sister’s for Christmas. A family reunion. What a joke. He brought over two pints of Guinness and sat down.

His father wasted no time getting to the point. ‘So what’s yer intentions?’ he said.

The beer was warm. South London. What did you expect? He’d expected his dad to show a bit of interest, that’s what. Danny had been away for a year. More than a year. There was no interest, however. There was no Tell me what it’s like living in Greece. How’s the job? Are they paying you? Are you getting by all right? Maybe he hadn’t asked because he knew the answer. Maybe he didn’t care. Danny wasn’t getting by. The ticket had cost a month’s wages. He didn’t know where the January rent was coming from. ‘What do you mean, what’re my intentions?’ he said.

You can read the whole story on Interlitq here.

Hyperthymesia

2012-01-10T17:03:00.000+02:00

Hyperthymesia is a condition in which the individual possesses a superior autobiographical memory, meaning they can recall the vast majority of personal experiences and events in their lives. The term 'hyperthymesia' is derived from the Greek words hyper, meaning 'excessive', and thymesis, meaning 'remembering'. Although considered a boon for the serious writer, it is a nasty affliction, and often results in spells in residential care.

Careful - 22/12/2011

2011-12-22T21:16:00.001+02:00

Snowed off, but not snowed in. You grab the chance. You have to. You wrap up and brave it. You know how to get there. It's a ten minute walk. Tonight it's longer. You don't want to break a bone. The cafeneio is warm, smoky. The wine arrives. You're already scribbling, getting it down, this part of it, your limited third person narrative. Jargon. You're wary of it, but you know it's important. So are signposts. This isn't a story about jargon, never mind signposts. Even if it seems to be heading that way.

Scotch

2011-12-20T14:38:00.000+02:00

Raucous,
Not rowdy.

Not yet.

A Wee Guest Poem: Jim Murdoch

2011-12-10T21:15:00.000+02:00

The Things We Knew

He didn’t hide the bottles

it is true but then neither

did he leave them on display.

He drank to help himself sleep;

that is what he told himself

and us, his conscience and God.

God knew different and so

did we. I don’t know what his

conscience knew or thought it did.

I can’t stand the stuff myself,

whisky I mean, although I’m

not fond of the truth either

if I’m totally honest.

* * *

Jim Murdoch lives just outside Glasgow. His poetry has appeared in small press magazines on both sides of the Atlantic for nearly forty years and now, of course, his most recent work can be found online. He has recently published a collection of poetry entitled This Is Not About What You Think in addition to two novels. A third, Milligan and Murphy, an expression of his love of the works of Samuel Beckett, has just been published. You can read more about him on his blog and website.

A Wee Guest Poem: Brian Hill

2011-12-09T23:14:00.000+02:00

Uamh an Oir / Cave of Gold

This is a film of Brian Hill's moving tribute to musician, Martyn Bennet.

Martyn Bennet was a Scottish musician who made music with traditional roots in a very modern idiom. You can hear some and find out more at http://www.martynbennett.com/ . Martyn died in 2005 of Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

Brian Hill explains: I'd been listening to Martyn's stuff for some time and I knew he had cancer but his musical drive seemed too strong to be stopped. When he died, I was quite shocked and I wrote the poem used in the video. The title is borrowed from a traditional Gaelic song which was performed by his mother (and, according to her, recorded in a dungeon in Linlithgow Palace). The song is about a piper who enters the Cave of Gold and who says: 'Many a young maid in bloom of youth/Will pass away, will pass away/Ere I come, ere I return'. Margaret Bennet very kindly gave me the words in Gaelic and in translation.

In 2007, I made the video for the FilmG Gaelic film competition. For that I had the poem translated into Gaelic and voiced by a proper Gaelic speaker. The music is Uamh an Oir/Cave of Gold sung by Margaret Bennett, recorded and mixed by Martyn. The film made the short-list in the competitiion, which was nice. The Gaelic version is here, by the way - http://youtu.be/hsDuvEiBFq8

A Wee Guest Poem: Marion McCready

2011-12-09T00:33:00.001+02:00

The Rest and Be Thankful

On The Rest we lie

back on tarmac eyeing up

the winter sky: Pleiades, Plough, Orion.

Drive. The Milky Way suspends

above the hollow glen, high

high up the Drover’s Road. Bend

into its curves, take no thought for the morrow

just drive. The highway kneels before us,

the windscreen is riddled with galaxies

strewn across the rotunda night.

Tonight there is no loch, no Firth of Clyde

smack into a beach wall, just a pumpkin moon

and the Glasgow road carved from a mountainside.

(First published in Poetry Scotland and The Glasgow Herald)

* * *

Marion McCready lives in Dunoon, Argyll. Her poems have appeared in a variety of publications including The Edinburgh Review, Northwords Now and The Glasgow Herald. Calder Wood Press published her pamphlet collection Vintage Sea earlier this year. Marion blogs about poetry here - http://sorlily.blogspot.com/

A Wee Guest Fiction: Alan Crossan

2011-12-07T23:19:00.001+02:00

One To Tell The Grandkids

He looked to the window again, saw nothing but ashes gathered. He stubbed out his cigarette then lit another, teasing smoke through his teeth. She remained discreet, concentration drawn behind the cover of a novel. Once this room had echoed with laughter or later at least with arguments; plates smashing on the kitchen tiles, dislodged by the vibrations of a washing machine. Or so he told the neighbours. Now, only the refrigerator buzz and the distant hum of traffic in the streets below.

Photos in silver frames on the table: A young couple gaze into each others eyes unaware of the lens trained upon them. He didn't know who they were, their facial expressions so different from anything he could associate with. They looked complete, stepping out on the floor.

But deceptions spoil the dance. Little white lies, inconsequential, they build up, ready to burst, drowning a person's sense of themselves.

I have to tell her, I owe her that much.

She said she would never trust a man, not after her father. It was a challenge, he'd prove not all men were scumbags, he'd show her if it killed him. But her paranoia had worn him down, chipped away any remaining feeling.

Is that fair? If I'd been a better husband, talked it over, reassured her.

He sighed. Her eyes rose from the page and lowering the book she flashed him a questioning smile. She looked as if she was going to speak but thought better of it and returned to her reading.

Surely she must know, its clearly not working anymore, I have to say something, get it out in the open.

He paced by the window, smoking. He had to say something, the words inside him ready to overflow and dribble down his shirt. He knew the promises he had made but surely in the end it was better for both of them.

It’s not that easy. How do you start a conversation like that? It’s not the sort of thing you just blurt out: "Sorry darling, I don't love you anymore"

Perhaps that was her father's trouble. Easier to lead a double life, leave his wife and kid at home, clamber into his lorry and drive to the other family, explain away absences with the nature of his work. Easier to live that lie than to find the words.

He was better than that. He wouldn’t hold out for this dying relationship. Time to read the last rites; he had to say something.

"Leanne"

"Mmm?"

I can’t do it.

He couldn't bear it. The look whenever she talked about that man. He gulped down his intentions, buried them deep in his chest.

"Fancy a cuppa?"

"I'm good thanks"

"Okay"

He looked to the window again. It had started to rain, puddles forming between the geraniums rotting in the window box. The British summer; something else he was going to have to live with.

* * *

Alan Crossan lives in Barrhead near Glasgow. He writes mainly short stories and flash fiction but is currently working on his first novel. He is a member of the Glasgow Writers Group and his work is featured in The McCollection, an anthology from McStorytellers.

A Wee Guest Fiction: Brendan Gisby

2011-12-06T12:34:00.000+02:00

Extract from the Journal of a Highland Journey, Circa 1970

He seemed to have left Pitlochry behind in no time at all. When he came to the top of a rise in the road, he looked back to see a faint silhouette of the town away in the distance. Ahead of him, stretching for miles on either side of the narrow strip of road, the ground was flat and purple with heather. Mountains, blue and hazy, filled the far horizon. This is more like it, he thought. This is what he had come for.

And then he saw them. They were about a hundred yards away on his right, standing beside an old, battered wooden caravan that had been parked a few feet back from the road. A skinny-looking pony grazed at some distance from the caravan. The four men all had long hair and wore black bonnets and different coloured kilts. The one furthest away wore a green kilt and was fiddling about with what looked like a set of bagpipes.

Tinkers! His mother detested them. She said they were a blight over in Eire, her homeland. ‘They’re not like the Gypsies,’ she once warned him. ‘The Gypsies are a proud people. Tinkers will rob and murder you as soon as look at you.’

He told himself that he couldn’t turn back, that that would be cowardly, that he had no option but to brazen it out. He gulped and crossed over to the other side of the road, so that the width of the road would separate him and the tinkers, and then he marched towards them.

As he got closer to the men, he saw that their hair and their clothes were dirty and unkempt. When he passed them, the one in the green kilt shouted something which he didn’t understand. He just smiled and waved nonchalantly and kept on going.

It was only when his back was to the tinkers that he really became frightened. How stupid could he have been? He was trapped now, unable to turn back. They could drag him out into the heather and cut his throat and leave him there, and no-one would know.

There was a boulder by the side of the road just ahead of him. When he reached it, he sat down on it, pretended to tie one of his laces and looked back at the tinkers. They were all too busy to notice him, though. A bus full of tourists – Americans, probably – had come up from Pitlochry. Three of the tinkers were selling sprigs of ‘lucky heather’ to some of the tourists, while the fourth tinker, the one in the green kilt, was starting up the bagpipes.

He got up from the boulder and continued on his way at a brisk pace. He was immensely relieved not only to be leaving the tinkers behind, but also to be quickly out of earshot of the screeching and wailing of the worst rendition of ‘Scotland the Brave’ that he would ever hear.

* * *

Brendan Gisby was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, halfway through the 20th century, and was brought up just along the road in South Queensferry (the Ferry) in the shadow of the world-famous Forth Bridge. He has published two novels, "The Island of Whispers" and "The Olive Branch"; a collection of short stories about growing up in the Ferry during the 1950's and 1960's, "Ferry Tales"; and a biography of his late father, "The Bookie’s Runner". His author's website can be found here. Brendan is also the founder of McStorytellers, a website which showcases the work of Scottish-connected short story writers.

Wee Fictions: Call For Submissions

2011-12-04T22:58:00.000+02:00

Wee Fictions is accepting submissions of poetry and prose (maximum 500 words) all through December.

Submissions should be sent to andrewmccallumcrawfordAThotmailDOTcom, with 'Wee Fictions' in the subject field.

Andrew McCallum Crawford - 'Gimlet' in Spilling Ink Review 7

2011-12-02T10:19:00.000+02:00

Well pleased to have my story, Gimlet, in issue 7 of Spilling Ink Review.

A cracking sound. A crack and a jolt. He opened an eye. It must have been his head off the step. Marble. There was no pain. How did he get here? He’d climbed three flights and he was outside his gaff. He leaned over and dug the key out of his pocket. It was buried under a wad of coins and banknotes.
The place, in darkness, stank of old shoes. He managed to open the balcony door. He staggered to the mattress and collapsed. Old shoes and newsprint. Joss sticks.
The Weeping Song.
He reached over and pulled the phone out of the wall.
Oh, Matt.
Pissed again.

You can read the complete story online here.

Nick Cave gets a mention. He's singing this:

Nick Cave - The Weeping Song

2011-12-02T08:52:00.000+02:00

The McCollection - an anthology of Scottish short stories, 2011

2011-11-28T11:23:00.000+02:00

The McCollection - an anthology of twenty short stories by contributors to the McStorytellers website. Edited by Brendan Gisby.

Tom Greenwood
Pat Black
David D. Sharp
Alan Crossan
Gavin Broom
Skagadol Husche
Angus Shoor Caan
Alan Gillespie
Alan Brough
Bill Kirton
Andrew McCallum Crawford
Jack O’Donnell
Alasdair McPherson
Stewart Wright
Gurmeet Mattu
Brendan Gisby
Kevin McCallum
Ron A. Sewell
M. W. Harris
James McPherson

You can get the book on Kindle at Amazon co uk and Amazon com. The print edition is also available from Amazon com. Reviews will follow.

Sofitel

2011-11-26T21:57:00.000+02:00

In this rented room
his thoughts are
of who
owns whom.

Bar, Graphite on Paper, 2011

2011-11-17T11:23:00.000+02:00

The place smells stale, it smells of things that have been bottled up too long and are beginning to seep out. He positions himself at the bar. The tumbler is thick, squat. Whisky covers ice bricks: his optico-acoustico-olfactory pleasure is satiated. The verb 'articulate'. Words. He's not scared of them. Words are for playing with, it's not a thesis, although he is an educated man. The verb 'orchestrate'. Whisky. First the words, now the images, time to watch them flow before he messes with them. Cut and paste, rearrange, but stay shy of delete. Never delete. Conditional 3, if he hadn't done that he would have done something else. They all would. Things would have been different. Things would be different. Things wouldn't have gone stale. Yes, they would. Same stale, different bottles. Same man sitting in a bar, alone. A different bar, but the same alone, which is the point.

A Wee Poem: Lignite

2011-11-13T22:05:00.000+02:00

You dig it up.

It’s been buried for years –

millions of them.

It used to be trees.

They must have been beautiful.

You burn it.

The smoke makes patterns.

Dark blue on sky blue.

People see things.

Beautiful things.

Some people

claim to see trees.

Others stare into the ashes

Trying to rekindle the memory

Of a moment’s warmth.

The Next Stop Is Croy - A Wee Film

2011-11-11T11:50:00.000+02:00

Here's a short film of my story, 'The Next Stop Is Croy'.

Part 1

Part 2

Taken from my collection, 'The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories', which is available here and here.

The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories

2011-11-09T13:55:00.000+02:00

Reviews:

`The Next Stop is Croy and Other Stories' is a skilfully written collection of short stories that takes the reader straight to the bittersweet spot of the human condition. Exploring familiar terrains of shame, frustration and loss, the writer differentiates these stories by revealing those elusive, critical moments in life that knit together to make a boy into a man. The writer manages to distil a lifetime into the spoken (and unspoken) language of fathers and sons. I've had the honour of publishing other works by Andrew McCallum Crawford and I hope that you seize the opportunity to read this moving collection of stories. Amy Burns

*****

This is a short collection of six, easy to read stories which recount various incidents in the life of a young Scot. We see their surfaces, their separateness, but we're also made aware of the echoes between and the depths beneath them.

In a foreword, the author prepares us for the collection by reminding us that they're stand-alone pieces which `in no way' constitute `a novella or a novelette'. Equally, though, he acknowledges that strong links and themes run through them and the resultant grouping conveys very strongly their potential as a `continuous narrative'. The tantalising effect of the sequence is to make us want to know more of what happened between the episodes and events he chooses. As it is, we can enjoy each passage as a self-contained story but, simultaneously, we create our own version of how the relationships shifted and developed in the `gaps'.
They're all told from the perspective of a single narrator, Alan, observing and experiencing the separation between his own lifestyle, choices and opportunities and those of his father. The language often seems to suggest confrontation and yet there's no mistaking the tenderness, nostalgia and love that informs it. There's an artlessness, a deceptive simplicity about many of the exchanges between Alan and his father when we hear the abruptness of the delivery, the seeming carelessness of the remarks and hidden accusations, and we know that both parties want to say other things, want to express the love that connects them. It's a love that never gets articulated and yet it suffuses nearly all their contacts.
The writing is clever. There are no great tragic outpourings; tragedy is a very personal experience, marked by memories of seemingly trivial things - finding lost golf balls, sharpening a saw, cutting through a counter, sensing yet never penetrating a secret shared by two girls. But, when recollected, they have the resonance of major life events, signifying much more than their surface suggests. The stories convey the fragmentation of life, its refusal to cohere into a constant flow, the power of memories and the helplessness we feel before them.
The feeling which remains is that Alan is somehow lost in his own life. It's failed to settle into the meanings he seeks for it, remaining instead as a collection of disconnected fragments, each consisting of elements which should draw them together. So in the end, we come to realise the artfulness of those claims in the foreword. Our lives consist of fragments - we can group and structure them to imply a significance but, in the end, the idea of a `continuous narrative' is a myth. We need to live in and understand the moment. Above all, we need to be prepared to see the value of the trivial and tell the emotional truths which are the real driving force of our being. Bill Kirton

*****

28 years ago Alastair Gray changed the landscape for short stories by a Scottish Author with "Unlikely Stories, Mostly". Those of us who love Contemporary Scottish Fiction have since found the ground rather barren.

Andrew's new collection is like finding a flower sprouting out of cracked concrete - it's unexpected and he's yet little known. But it is eminently readable, even when it hurts a bit.'

He'll kill me for writing this. Steve Alker

*****

Andrew McCallum Crawford reaches into his wordsmiths toolbox to investigate the relationship between boys and fathers. Although the stories have a Scottish background there can be no doubt the truths of the relationships will be felt worldwide. As before, the humour and veracity of Scottish life is laid bare... this is quite simply the work of a fine author on the rise. Buy it before he gets too famous. Peter Murphy

The book is available on Amazon co uk and Amazon com.

Not A Wee Fiction: Mine

2011-10-30T22:54:00.000+02:00

I don't have to go inside. I can see the oil stove burning in the middle of the floor, the patrons gathered round, talking, shouting, laughing, smoking. The scene could be duplicated in a thousand shops. And the talking, shouting and laughing would be the same in all of them, talk of money and the lack of it, of the state of the place, of what things have come to, of thieves, traitors. There is a lot I could add to the discussion, but I prefer not to. I remain, willingly, ametohos, left out, I have no stake in the debate. I am not of these people, I am from another place, a place with similar problems but no sense of itself. I am a stranger, ametohos, in both places. I am losing my mind. This is no personal choice, although it is the result of one. To find the richest seam one must dig deep. But the deeper one goes, the darker it becomes. There is blood on my hands from tearing at rocks which refuse to yield. I force a way through. I have to put myself in that place, to feel it. The seam, which is the past, is reached. It is a gallery of illusions, blackened with dust. Torn skin smoothes a mark in the kimberlite. The image is nothing more than a stain, meaningless. But I am now in the place. I lose myself in it. This is where I have put myself, willingly. A personal choice. This is where I have to be, where I must be, buried in this dark, mad grave. No longer ametohos. I hack at diamonds.

The Rank Amateur and the Roman à Clef

2011-10-28T22:06:00.000+03:00

He wrote a book. It was a minor hit. Nothing major. It got a handful of good reviews. It dealt with a defining moment in his life. This defining moment had to do with things falling apart. There was no analysis of the event, only a few details of the event itself, the facts, and some of the things which followed. He was all for people drawing their own conclusions. It was a roman à clef, which was irrelevant in the great scheme of things, seeing as he was nobody.

A minor hit.

The names, as they say, had been changed. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, he wasn’t that type of person. In any case, the names weren’t important, it was the facts, the event. He hadn’t written the book to examine other people’s motives. He had written it to understand the past, and how the past had affected the way his life had turned out.

Then something happened, or was made to happen. Something directly related to the book, caused by the book, but at the same time unrelated to it. This thing that happened was founded in reality, in the present. He could write a good story, it was true, but when it came to emotions and people who play games, to reality, he was a rank amateur. He had created an aura, and the fragments of that aura were lying on the ground at his feet, shattered, broken beyond fixing. But when he looked more closely he saw that the memory, the memory of the event, the defining moment, was still intact. This was his delusion, the key to the roman à clef. For that he was grateful. Grateful to himself, no one else.

A Wee Poem: Player

2011-10-23T21:41:00.000+03:00

He scans the ground ahead,
left, right and centre.
Eyes are for seeing.
There's a line you shouldn't cross.
It's a line that marks a boundary.
He imagines it as
Thick
White
like a line
on a tennis court.

But this is no game.
There are no rules.
Although there will be losers,
eventually.

He knows this.

He scans the ground ahead,
left, right and centre,
his eyes
peeled.

He will never find the line.
The line is invisible,
which,
in a game
that isn't a game
with no rules
only losers,
is fair.

In any case,
he crossed it
days ago.

The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories: fancy doing a review on Goodreads?

2011-10-08T11:15:00.000+03:00

The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories by Andrew McCallum Crawford

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It might be a bit cheeky of me to review this book - after all, I wrote it. However, reader reviews have just started coming in on Amazon, so I thought I'd paste some excerpts here.

"...takes the reader straight to the bittersweet spot of the human condition...the writer manages to distil a lifetime into the spoken (and unspoken) language of fathers and sons..................the humour and veracity of Scottish life is laid bare..................Andrew's new collection is like finding a flower sprouting out of cracked concrete..."

AUTHOR BIOG

Andrew McCallum Crawford grew up in Grangemouth, an industrial town in East Central Scotland. He studied Science and Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh and went on to take a teaching qualification at Jordanhill College, Glasgow. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in Lines Review, The Athens News, Junk Junction, Ink Sweat and Tears, McStorytellers, Weaponizer, New Linear Perspectives, Spilling Ink Review, Drey 2 (Red Squirrel Press), Ironstone, The Legendary, the Midwest Literary Magazine and the 'The'. His first novel, 'Drive!', was published in 2010.'The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories' came out in October, 2011. He lives in Greece.

View all my reviews

The Next Stop Is Croy and other stories

2011-10-03T22:53:00.001+03:00

Well, here it is. It begins like this:

The stories in this collection were not written in the order in which they appear here; they certainly were not conceived as part of a continuous narrative. However, I have decided to bring them together because of the chronology and themes which, it turns out, run through them. Please bear in mind that this is in no way a novella or novelette. It is a collection of short stories, and each story stands or falls on its own, as short stories must.

I find that the more I write, the more personal the writing becomes. I am putting more of myself into the work. This is not to say that my stories are autobiographical (although, admittedly, one of the stories in this collection is based entirely on something that happened, more than twenty years ago). There are moments of personal experience in the book, but I have used those moments, those brief scenes from memory, as the basis for something else. Exactly which elements from my life are contained in these stories is of no consequence. Readers may wonder, 'Did that really happen?', but in the final analysis it doesn't matter. They are Wee Fictions. They mean what they mean. And they will mean something different for each person who stumbles across them.

Do come and have a look. The Amazon pages for the book are here (.co.uk) and here (.com).

Skint Week - Brendan Gisby, Leela Soma, Ross Wilson, Gordon Urquhart and Brian Hill

2011-09-30T22:59:00.000+03:00

The Scavenger by Brendan Gisby

He’ll arrive home with his haul of coins; coppers mostly, tossed into the river for good luck by train passengers crossing the bridge. He’ll soak the coins in soapy water. Later, he’ll scrub them with a nailbrush. He’ll clean off the mud and the slime, but he won’t be able to remove the telltale blue-green signs of verdigris.

His wife will complain about the money, as if it carries a stigma. ‘You can scrub it all you like, but it’ll always look and smell of the Forth Bridge.’

He’ll smile and shrug. ‘There’s no shame in being poor,’ he’ll reply.

* * *

Brendan Gisby was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, halfway through the 20th century, and was brought up just along the road in South Queensferry (the Ferry) in the shadow of the world-famous Forth Bridge. He has published two novels, "The Island of Whispers" and "The Olive Branch"; a collection of short stories about growing up in the Ferry during the 1950's and 1960's, "Ferry Tales"; and a biography of his late father, "The Bookie’s Runner". His author's website can be found here. Brendan is also the founder of McStorytellers, a website which showcases the work of Scottish-connected short story writers.

_______________________________________________________

Desert Dreams by Leela Soma

His body lay in the mortuary. The Company, the Indian Government and the UAE Government argued over repatriating the body.

Suman had arrived in Dubai to build one of the skyscrapers that rose from nothing. The company laid off the workers when the building boom went bust. His simple dream of providing a decent life back home in Kerala for his family evaporated. Beholden to the moneylender and desperate, he threw himself off the unfinished ninetieth floor. His dreams splattered on the sand with his lifeless body.

He remained an untouchable in birth and death.

* * *

Leela Soma, born in Madras, now Chennai, lives in Glasgow, Scotland. Her first novel, 'Twice Born', was published in December 2008. A short story, 'Ayah', has been published in SQA’s ‘Write Times’. Articles and poems have been published in the magazine, ‘New Voices’, the literary magazine of the Federation of Writers Scotland, and a poem in 'Gutter' magazine's 05 issue. Her second novel, 'Bombay Baby', is with the publishers and will be launched in the autumn of this year.
Her work reflects her experiences as a first generation Indo-Scot.

_______________________________________________________

WORTH by Ross Wilson

A finger contacts a pupil.
A twenty-five year old face,
ten years ahead of itself,
blinks into focus.

A twisted sneer turns
from the mirror.
A hand grabs flab
bulging off a belly.

Irn Bru washes breakfast down –
crisps and diet pills.
A lip hooks a fag,
pink-nailed hands fill

clothes with tattooed limbs.
Chapped lips cough, cursing
that fuckin' place
where pettiness chokes the air

like the nooses her pierced lip puffs
off a crabbit sneer.
A sour breath wheezes
from a face – a bitter wind.

And because some things
are hard to face,
her eyes glisten
under contacts circled by

mascara-snares blinking shut
on a mind full of its own shit.
On a world viewed through
lashes bared like teeth.

On a life existed, not lived,
£5:93 by the hour –
for that’s what they tell her
she’s worth.

* * *

Ross Wilson comes fae Fife and his first chapbook will be published by Calder Wood Press in November.

_______________________________________________________

Infrastructure by Gordon Urquhart

Back of Munlochy, in the testing winter of 2010.
Cracks, frost widened, like dead pigeons under pines
became potholes, aggravated by thaw and Spring drivers, warm in fourbys.
Rattling the tarmac, tutting in the knowledge that repair would come.

In Nyimba, on the Great East Road, they make do.
Descendents of trappers, they cover hollows with sticks and leaves.
Hedge fund managers.
Buses swerve; slowing down sometimes, toppling others,
Asphalt margins crumbling into sand, narrowing daily.

The elephants are gone,
and the luxury coaches and infrequent lorries,
are fast and inedible.

* * *

Gordon Urquhart is a Scoattish Heelander living in Zambia, where his short attention span attracts less attention. He likes making wee films about animals, portmanteau electronic music, his children, Inverness Caley Thistle, history and the bittersweet prospect of the death of capitalism. Though she gets irritated by his sarcasm, he loves his wife. He thinks he isn't nearly sarcastic enough.

_______________________________________________________

Skint by Brian Hill

Bare,
The earth, granular,
Flayed of whatever flesh
Clothed it.

Currency,
Like some blood,
Or a river’s water,
Ran till the season’s end
Where dryness,
Spendthrift time,
Brought night,
Dead of it:
3 AM.

Transaction,
Motion’s discord,
Accumulation’s ebb and flow,
Strips here and now
Of everything.

Circling,
Ownership,
Now yours, now mine,
Leaves each one of us
Destitute.

Decease,
Like winter,
Freezes a useless asset,
Paints a death’s head
On imaginary life,
Skin and bone:
Only the last remains.

In the earth,
Bare,
Skeletons endure.

* * *

Brian Hill is designer and filmmaker living in the wilds of Moray. He was, and still is, a founder member of Brian and the Brains and has also been known as the rhyme-slinger, Hilly cunctator, the cartoon cowboy, and latterly the planetarium poet. In between he has teased a living in the voluntary sector, designed for money and made tiny movies. He did have something published once and has written (and performed) many poems on astronomy, the cosmos and our heathen past, usually in complete darkness. His last public work was a voice over and short poem for Gill Russell’s Long Wave installation at the Clan Donald Centre in Skye, late 2010.

_______________________________________________________

A Wee Guest Fiction: Anonymous

2011-09-30T00:07:00.000+03:00

Things had got beyond a joke. He stepped into a chemist's and weighed himself. 63 kilos. 10 stone, which is quite a feat when you're five foot eleven and in full time employment. His problem was that he was incapable of defaulting on a bill. One of the regulars down the pub said to him, 'Are you eating?', then took him out for roast chicken and wine.

His hangover lasted three days.

A Wee Guest Poem: Brian Hill

2011-09-28T22:49:00.000+03:00

Skint

Bare,
The earth, granular,
Flayed of whatever flesh
Clothed it.

Currency,
Like some blood,
Or a river’s water,
Ran till the season’s end
Where dryness,
Spendthrift time,
Brought night,
Dead of it:
3 AM.

Transaction,
Motion’s discord,
Accumulation’s ebb and flow,
Strips here and now
Of everything.

Circling,
Ownership,
Now yours, now mine,
Leaves each one of us
Destitute.

Decease,
Like winter,
Freezes a useless asset,
Paints a death’s head
On imaginary life,
Skin and bone:
Only the last remains.

In the earth,
Bare,
Skeletons endure.

* * *

Brian Hill is designer and filmmaker living in the wilds of Moray. He was, and still is, a founder member of Brian and the Brains and has also been known as the rhyme-slinger, Hilly cunctator, the cartoon cowboy, and latterly the planetarium poet. In between he has teased a living in the voluntary sector, designed for money and made tiny movies. He did have something published once and has written (and performed) many poems on astronomy, the cosmos and our heathen past, usually in complete darkness. His last public work was a voice over and short poem for Gill Russell’s Long Wave installation at the Clan Donald Centre in Skye, late 2010.

A Wee Guest Poem: Gordon Urquhart

2011-09-27T22:17:00.000+03:00

Infrastructure

Back of Munlochy, in the testing winter of 2010.
Cracks, frost widened, like dead pigeons under pines
became potholes, aggravated by thaw and Spring drivers, warm in fourbys.
Rattling the tarmac, tutting in the knowledge that repair would come.

In Nyimba, on the Great East Road, they make do.
Descendents of trappers, they cover hollows with sticks and leaves.
Hedge fund managers.
Buses swerve; slowing down sometimes, toppling others,
Asphalt margins crumbling into sand, narrowing daily.

The elephants are gone,
and the luxury coaches and infrequent lorries,
are fast and inedible.

* * *

Gordon Urquhart is a Scoattish Heelander living in Zambia, where his short attention span attracts less attention. He likes making wee films about animals, portmanteau electronic music, his children, Inverness Caley Thistle, history and the bittersweet prospect of the death of capitalism. Though she gets irritated by his sarcasm, he loves his wife. He thinks he isn't nearly sarcastic enough.

A Wee Guest Poem: Ross Wilson

2011-09-26T22:48:00.001+03:00

WORTH

A finger contacts a pupil.
A twenty-five year old face,
ten years ahead of itself,
blinks into focus.

A twisted sneer turns
from the mirror.
A hand grabs flab
bulging off a belly.

Irn Bru washes breakfast down –
crisps and diet pills.
A lip hooks a fag,
pink-nailed hands fill

clothes with tattooed limbs.
Chapped lips cough, cursing
that fuckin' place
where pettiness chokes the air

like the nooses her pierced lip puffs
off a crabbit sneer.
A sour breath wheezes
from a face – a bitter wind.

And because some things
are hard to face,
her eyes glisten
under contacts circled by

mascara-snares blinking shut
on a mind full of its own shit.
On a world viewed through
lashes bared like teeth.

On a life existed, not lived,
£5:93 by the hour –
for that’s what they tell her
she’s worth.

* * *

Ross Wilson comes fae Fife and his first chapbook will be published by Calder Wood Press in November.

A Wee Guest Fiction: Leela Soma

2011-09-25T21:37:00.000+03:00

Desert Dreams

His body lay in the mortuary. The Company, the Indian Government and the UAE Government argued over repatriating the body.

Suman had arrived in Dubai to build one of the skyscrapers that rose from nothing. The company laid off the workers when the building boom went bust. His simple dream of providing a decent life back home in Kerala for his family evaporated. Beholden to the moneylender and desperate, he threw himself off the unfinished ninetieth floor. His dreams splattered on the sand with his lifeless body.

He remained an untouchable in birth and death.

* * *

Leela Soma, born in Madras, now Chennai, lives in Glasgow, Scotland. Her first novel, 'Twice Born', was published in December 2008. A short story, 'Ayah', has been published in SQA’s ‘Write Times’. Articles and poems have been published in the magazine, ‘New Voices’, the literary magazine of the Federation of Writers Scotland, and a poem in 'Gutter' magazine's 05 issue. Her second novel, 'Bombay Baby', is with the publishers and will be launched in the autumn of this year.
Her work reflects her experiences as a first generation Indo-Scot.

A Wee Guest Fiction: Brendan Gisby

2011-09-24T23:11:00.000+03:00

The Scavenger

He’ll arrive home with his haul of coins; coppers mostly, tossed into the river for good luck by train passengers crossing the bridge. He’ll soak the coins in soapy water. Later, he’ll scrub them with a nailbrush. He’ll clean off the mud and the slime, but he won’t be able to remove the telltale blue-green signs of verdigris.

His wife will complain about the money, as if it carries a stigma. ‘You can scrub it all you like, but it’ll always look and smell of the Forth Bridge.’

He’ll smile and shrug. ‘There’s no shame in being poor,’ he’ll reply.

* * *

Brendan Gisby was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, halfway through the 20th century, and was brought up just along the road in South Queensferry (the Ferry) in the shadow of the world-famous Forth Bridge. He has published two novels, "The Island of Whispers" and "The Olive Branch"; a collection of short stories about growing up in the Ferry during the 1950's and 1960's, "Ferry Tales"; and a biography of his late father, "The Bookie’s Runner". His author's website can be found here. Brendan is also the founder of McStorytellers, a website which showcases the work of Scottish-connected short story writers.

'Teeth' - published in New Linear Perspectives

2011-09-23T22:25:00.000+03:00

Teeth

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He could see her now – in the picture he carried around in his head she was happy, smiling. What a smile. The girl with the perfect teeth, that’s what he’d started calling her. She seemed to like it, it made her laugh. He wanted to talk to her, but there was no phone in his dad’s house. There never had been. He thought about her all the time. Of course he did. He loved her. She had saved his life. Okay, maybe that was going a bit far, but they only had so much time left. Their days were numbered. He was leaving, and she still had three years to go. Neither of them had mentioned the future. Why talk about something that doesn’t exist? They knew it was coming to an end. It had to...

To read the rest of the story, go to the page in New Linear Perspectives

Literary Fiction - The Kindle 'Genre' That Dare Not Speak Its Name

2011-09-22T13:48:00.000+03:00

It's strange, but Literary Fiction seems to have become the 'genre' that dare not speak its name. The inverted commas are deliberate, of course; anything that isn't 'genre' is, by a process of exclusion, Literary Fiction. In the world of the self-published author, 'Literary' has become a dirty word. I can't understand it. There are dozens, if not hundreds of groups where writers can promote their Romance/Horror/Fantasy/Crime novels. These groups function on an ethos of mutual support, which is laudable. But here's the thing. Success seems to be measured in how high your Amazon ranking has gone. This makes writers happy. Of course it does; people are buying their books. Perhaps a few of them are even making something approaching a wage. I am happy for them.

I don't write 'genre' fiction. I don't write about knights in shining armour, monsters, witches or detectives. I write about real people facing problems that real people may have faced at some point. Is this a definition of 'Literary Fiction'? I don't know, but it's what I do. As a writer, I believe, you have to put yourself into your work. I don't necessarily mean autobiography or memoir, I mean you have to give of yourself as a human being. So what's my definition of success? A good ranking on Amazon? Well, that's part of it - we'd all like to make a buck. But for me, real success is when I know I have written something lean, tight and simple - something that is well-crafted and will hopefully strike a chord with a reader, whoever it might be.

The Next Stop Is Croy

2011-09-19T11:14:00.001+03:00

The Next Stop Is Croy - a collection of six published and unpublished stories which explore the relationships between fathers and sons. Out in October on Kindle.

from 'Gimlet'

2011-09-06T23:46:00.000+03:00

...The Weeping Song. The last song of the night. Time to go somewhere. Where? Time to go. The record spins on the deck. Focus. The only light is the light on the needle, searing the vinyl. The vinyl bobs. Focus on the light, but it’s moving. This is the Weeping Song. I raise my glass. I look at it closely. I examine it. Maybe it holds some kind of secret; an answer to a question I haven’t thought of. The contents are emerald, precious, glinting in that tiny light, the only light in the bar, the only light in the world.

A Wee Poem: The Watchmaker's Wife

2011-09-03T20:57:00.000+03:00

Her nails are picked to the quick,
not bitten.
She is the Watchmaker's wife
for purposes of definition
(contained within parentheses)
in this poem.

But a poem is too neat
too nice
too short.

In reality,
it's a long story.
Back to the beginning.
A life.
Her life.
Full of drama.
Full of episodes,
not asides.
Nothing in brackets.

A Wee Poem: Roslin in the the spring

2011-09-03T20:34:00.000+03:00

Students of Agriculture
learn how to deliver lambs
by pulling a dead one
out of an artificial
ovine vagina.

The lesson isn't assessed.

A Wee Poem: Archimedes' Principle

2011-09-02T20:33:00.001+03:00

I was sitting in his seat.
He stood there, right next to me.
Looking at me.
Then he turned round.
All I could see was his back,
huge and straight, then
his knees began to bend.
I moved
just in time as
his arse hit the place
that was his by right.
'Well played, that man,' he said,
patting his pockets
as if he was trying to find something.

Am I a coward?
The Greeks have a word for it:
Σκοπιμότητα.
It's not rocket science
or physics of any other kind;
everyone knows
Archimedes is a bit of a gangster.

He showed me his gun once.

Drive! now on Kindle

2011-08-21T13:32:00.000+03:00

Well, here it is, at long last in eBook format. You can buy it for £1.35 here. Thanks to everyone who's taken an interest in my writing over the past year or so - it's been hectic. I'll be putting out a small collection of short stories (both published and unpublished) some time in September, so stay tuned.

The Caff

2011-08-02T22:13:00.000+03:00

Crocodile's in. They call him Crocodile because he looks like one. Not much, but nicknames stick. He's just told a joke about a guy with a Big Dick. He's got a Big Dick because that's how the midwife pulled him out of his mother.
No one laughs.
Then someone says, 'Heh, Crocodile, is that what happened to you?'
'Eh?' says Crocodile.
'They must have pulled you out by the tail.'
Uproar.
Crocodile lifts his glass. 'Fuck yez,' he says.

Writing In Scots Dialect

2011-08-01T22:56:00.000+03:00

I've been following a thread on Marion McCready's blog about writing in Scots. Writing in dialect is something that I spent a lot of time thinking about, even before I read Marion's blog post; my first novel, Drive!, is full of East Central Scotland argot.

Two things are clear to me. An unknown writer has a minuscule chance of finding a readership. An unknown writer writing in dialect has even less chance.

Any thoughts?

Drive! - Soon Available On Kindle

2011-07-30T10:07:00.003+03:00

Soon available on Kindle - Drive! by Andrew McCallum Crawford.

"Drive! - packed with incidents which develop as the story unfolds...the great achievement of the book is its depiction of the pub and club-centric music scene in Edinburgh in the 80s...anyone who was there is sure be enthralled by this fascinating debut novel." --The Skinny, December 2010

Andrew McCallum Crawford's short stories have been published in places as diverse as Ink Sweat and Tears, McStorytellers, Weaponizer, New Linear Perspectives, Spilling Ink Review, Drey 2 (Red Squirrel Press), The Legendary and the Midwest Literary Magazine. Drive!, his first full-length novel, is set in a 1980s Edinburgh full of errant sons, unforgiving fathers and deluded rock musicians. For those who like their humour Scottish.