from South Shore Road

He was lost, talking to these people was like it was like he was a foreigner, he spoke English but he didn't know what they were on about half the time. What the hell was a Home Report? He'd been away so long he'd lost the ability to communicate with folk in his own language.

A Man's Hands - review by Jim Murdoch @ The Truth About Lies

Many thanks to Jim Murdoch for this extremely thoughtful review of A Man's Hands, which has just been published on his blog, The Truth About Lies.

"Just over a year ago I reviewed Andrew McCallum Crawford’s first collection of short stories, The Next Stop is Croy and other stories. As in that collection the characters in A Man’s Hands often appear in more than one story and although these stories stand on their own (and, indeed, have been published as standalone pieces) they do form part of a larger story arc and are enhanced because of this. That said, the Jacks, Johns, Andys, Matts and Seans all feel a bit like they all ought to be Andrews. I asked him about this and he said he thought I’d hit the nail on the head here:

Perhaps they all are Andrews. More precisely, perhaps they are allAndrew. Perhaps. The title of the collection is A Man's Hands, notMen's Hands.

When I read this the first time—at 60 pages it’s not exactly a long read—I didn’t pay too much attention to who the protagonists were in each of the stories. There was ‘the man’ and ‘the woman’ and that was as much as I really needed to know and I did find myself mixing them up. This has been something I’ve complained about before where there has been a cast of thousands—okay, a dozen or so—but never where most of the stories only contain two players. The fact is the names really are pretty much irrelevant and only serve to remind the readers which stories are (officially) linked. I add the proviso because, as I will explain, I think all the stories here are thematically interlinked."

The complete review - which runs to 4000 words - can be read here.

from No Main Body

...He waited till it was safe and put his heel through the ice. The crack then the hiss and whine; a wheeze, all the way along the gutter...

Know

A dream so vivid you know it will stay with you like the memory of something real. The setting was - is - that place of stones and railings, but the cast is confused, made up of people who didn't exist for you back then. Apart from one. She is waiting; she has not aged a day. You tread carefully because you know where you want this to lead. You take it there, slowly, to the place that is warm and dark. You move in close. Her perfume. God, you tell her. You even smell the same.

Author page on Goodreads

Just a quick post to let you know I've got a new author page on Goodreads:

Andrew McCallum Crawford

Feel free to post your reviews!

Ticket

He was in that tunnel at the taxi rank but the rain was pishing through the roof. He fucking hated himself. He had let it happen again. He fucking hated it it was as if he’d committed a crime but the only crime was self inflicted.  He knew this would happen. The tunnel finished and he was out there, exposed. He realized he was talking, aloud. He didn’t care. The rain was rattling down and it was a hike to the bus stop. His arms were cold where they were touching his sleeves, the water had penetrated. His ticket was in his breast pocket and it would be sodden. That would do him, an argument BUT I FUCKING PAID FOR A RETURN! Bastards, all of them, he was the biggest. He was a bastard, scum, he wasn’t fit to call himself a human being. He had to take the long way round at the car rentals because of the traffic. The weather was vile, it was apt. He knew this was going to happen. He knew it, too right he knew it he fucking planned it. As well as a bastard he was a user, he fucking deserved it, he deserved this turmoil.  The road under the dual carriageway then he was up the other side and the rain was joined by gale force winds. There was a queue at the bus stop, everyone huddled into the shelter. No room for another body, especially not his. He got his tobacco out. There was a cigarette already rolled. He hadn’t smoked all day. After contortions with his hood he got it alight. It didn’t last long, he couldn’t even taste it. His first smoke in eight hours, what had he been trying to prove? Mr Clean Living.  The bus came. There was no shouting about the ticket. He found a seat half way down the aisle and rubbed the condensation off the window. He saw his reflection and wanted to spit in his face.

A Man's Hands by Andrew McCallum Crawford - latest review

The latest review of A Man's Hands:

"These stories are about obsession. They're about men who want what they can't get. But they're not obsessed with money or fame or youth. They're obsessed with that perfect almost-relationship from the past. That precious moment they threw away, or lost somehow, whether because they stank with drink, or because another man was on the scene, or because fate just intervened. Secrets are hinted at. Dark things that linger in the memory - but not necessarily in the memory of that woman from two decades ago who also experienced it. The fact is, they can't turn back the clock and regain that lost ideal, and, slowly but surely, the men in 'A Man's Hands' come to realise that.

Andrew McCallum Crawford's characters brood and despair as they wrestle with the dark places in the human psyche, yet there's humour in these stories, too, especially in the wry Canny Cyclist. I think overall my favourites were Player, Chicken Soup and When Iron Turns to Rust. But they all have something to recommend them. The reader's always safe in this man's hands."
                                                                                                  - Carol McKay

A Man's Hands, my second collection of short stories, is available in the UK, Canada, Germany, France, Italy, Japan, Brazil and, of course
the USA (and all other territories).

When Iron Turns To Rust @ the Caff

When Iron Turns To Rust - first published in Northwords Now #22.

Written in Greece.
Published in Scotland.
Now being read in Greece.

Many thanks to everyone at Northwords Now. When Iron Turns To Rust is the penultimate story in my new collection, A Man's Hands, which is available for download at all Amazon domains.

A short extract from the story:

Trying to boil water in a small, long-handled pot. The flame was tiny, sputtering. There was hardly any gas left in the canister. The water had to be boiled, and boiled well. It was orange, the colour of old iron. He tried to tell himself it was nothing bad. There is nothing harmful about iron. It is supposed to be good for the blood. Maybe it would make a man of him. But he was careful. You never knew. Germs. It is never wise to give them a head start.

   The flame wheezed. He would have to risk it. He added a teaspoon of coffee and stirred vigorously. Perhaps friction would speed things along.

   Someone was at the door.

   He wiped the spoon on his vest.

   A woman was standing out in the passageway. She looked vaguely familiar. The expression she wore was tearful, apologetic. A suitcase was at her side. He became aware of his heart beating as vague familiarity welled up into something else.

   ‘You can’t be fucking serious,’ he said.

A Man's Hands - first review up on Amazon

The first review of A Man's Hands has just been posted -

"Andrew McCallum Crawford just keeps improving, his short stories are chiselled to perfection, the unsaid undercurrents in his stories have always been deep, but in this new collection the personal riptides reach new depths. An astonishing collection on the pull of memories, and the gnawing need to find some sort of completion. Well worth the money. Indeed, I would say, grab it while you can. This man is going places."

The book is available for download (Kindle/iPad/Android etc) at all Amazon domains. Hope to have you as readers some day.

Andy

A Man's Hands - released today

Hi, everyone.

Just to let you know that my new collection of short stories, A Man's Hands, was published today.

The collection includes stories that were first published in the literary journals Body (Czech Republic), Ink Sweat and Tears (England) and McStorytellers, Northwords Now and Spilling Ink Review (Scotland). Four of the stories appear here for the first time.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has published my writing over the past year - Peter Robertson at Interlitq, Adrian Searle at Gutter, Brendan Gisby at McStorytellers, Helen Ivory at Ink Sweat and Tears, Andrew F Giles at New Linear Perspectives, Chris Crawford at Body, Amy Burns at Spilling Ink Review, Alastair Cook at Filmpoem and Chris Powici at Northwords Now.

Thanks, everyone, for following Wee Fictions, whether you're a regular or just happen to be passing by. I appreciate it.

Andy