Terse, Cogent, Salient: Angus Shoor Caan

Cover Story


“Ri fulla rit thote rem two up musta been an Ayrshire man.”

“Whit two?”

“Itchy an' Scratchy.”

“Whit makes ye say rat ren?”

“Whit?”

“ 'E musta been an Ayrshire man.”

“Rat's whit wey cawed an Ayrshire blanket.”

“Itchy an' Scratchy.”

“Wull, us in Solkits cawed it an Itchy.”

“Aaaayyyye?”

“An' whin a stide et ma pal's in Irvine rey cawed it a Scratchy.”

“Wee bit e' a tenuous link rat is it no'?”

“Makes a loat a' sense tae me so it dis.”

“Wull mibbes could Google it ur Wikypedia it.”

“Aye, bit haud oan tae ri Simpsons is feenished eh?”

“How?”

“Cos Lisa's saxaphone solo's comin' up in a meenit.”

“Right y'ar. U'v you seen ris wan afore ren?”

“A could take a pert in it so a could. Ris yin's aboot five yur auld.”

“Whit made rum itchy ur scratchy ren?”

“Eh?”

“Ayrshire blankets. Whit made rum itchy ur scratchy?”

“Jaggy wool. Rat stuff touches yur skin an' makes ye aw itchy so it dis, bit rey kep' ye warum.”

“Wull wi nivir hid ony'hin' lit rat in Largs. Wi hid connulwick bedspreads us.”

“Posh gets awrerr so yis ur, gote tae bey rat wee bit diffrint.”

“Haw, a wis dragged up ri same is you wis. Went tae ri same skill an' rat.”

“Aye mibbes. Bit you hid a silvur spin an' a hid a plastic wan, mind?”

“You wis ri wan rit played pitch 'n' tose wi' ri two bob bits.”

“Rat's 'cos a hid two joabs me. An' a wis guid et ri pitch 'n' tose tae by ri wye.”

“Ye wis aye, ah'll gie ye rat.”

“An' whit's mair besides, a nivir seen ye shoart e' a ceegarette .”

“R'ur wis sumhin' else wis itchy, whit wis it?”

“Itchycoos. Rose hips, big rid 'hings.”

“Aye, rey wis great so rey wur. Wi open't rum up an' stuck rum doon ri back a' sumb'dy's neck.”

“Usually a lassie aye. Rat wis tae let 'ur ken ye fancied 'ur wint it?”

“D'ye 'hink it wid work if wi tried it rese days?”

“Lerris ken how ye git oan eh?”

 *     *     *

60 year old Angus Shoor Caan lives high up in the lower end of Ardrossan. He's the author of 11 books of which nine are novels, one a trilogy of short stories and the other a collection of McLimericks. His published works can be found via Amazon while every short story he has written is available to read for free on the mcstorytellers.com site.  Angus is currently working on a follow-up to 'Coont Thum: a Hunner an' oad McLimericks', and at the last count was almost half-way there.

 

Terse, Cogent, Salient: Linda Vickers

Running Wild

Bare legs, waxed and Bali-brown, pound the path. The ruined roundabout and forgotten flowerbeds whizz by unnoticed. The sky is darkling. Mara vaults the steps to the dilapidated bandstand.

“Damn.” She clutches a stitch. “Jay!” Mara paces, panting into the hands-free. “I took a wrong turn. Into the very park, as it happens.”

Way back at the entrance gates, the first lamp flickers in the gathering gloom.

“I’m decided. This district deserves a Mall. Shopping connects. Walks in wild flower meadows are pointless. I can rely on you to help the Council pale their principals?”

One by every one, the lamps light themselves along the path towards her, staunch sentries against the march of darkness. Beyond the security of their sodium glow, the grass lies breathing, ever-vigilant for vital sustenance - even fast food.

“No, I won’t go back on myself. I’ll shortcut across the pasture ahead. Home in thirty.” A pause. “We’ll discuss the Planning Application, okay? Let’s see if I can’t compromise those eco-principles of yours.”

Chuckling, Mara leaps from the bandstand. The turf gasps, then yields and caresses her footfall. “Damn, it’s a mire.”

The cold-tongued earth sucks greedily at her ankles. Frenzied blades of grass slash her skin, changing brown to red, felling her to her knees and hands.

Get up, Mara! Her inner voice is impotent. A septic tsunami of grass and glaur swells and rises up, towering above her, then crashes down, drowning her screams forever beneath the famished sod.

*     *     *

Linda Vickers lives and writes in South Wales in Penarth, a Victorian seaside town with a pier and plenty of suburban intrigue.

Terse, Cogent, Salient: Martin Cronin

The Balloonist

Sometimes, in the quieter moments, when things have settled, outside of the school runs and the frenetic office meetings, I have this recurring image that runs through my head. It's of a hot air balloon.

I see it now as I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It is shrouded in darkness and the colours, so vibrant in daylight, are lost to the blue-black sky. It hovers there, far above my house, moving gently in the wind.

There are mooring cables that extend from the basket and find anchoring points far below. Several run from the balloon straight down to my house. They disappear through the windows and front door. One even snakes down through the chimney. That one is the mortgage cable and it is particularly thick and unwieldy. Others stretch in taut descending tightropes towards my office, the hospital where my wife nurses, and the school my kids attend.

In the darkness I raise my arm towards the ceiling. I form a ring with middle finger and thumb and take aim at each cable. With a deft flick I imagine severing each mooring, one by one. Flick I go, and a cable snaps. The balloon shifts a little as the restraints fall away, till eventually they are all gone and it floats free.

I imagine it rising on a warm current of air, leaving the city, its office blocks and suburbs far below, catching a favourable wind that takes it effortlessly, and at silent speed across the wide Atlantic, or south perhaps towards the equator.

My wife stirs beside me and I lower my outstretched arm.

"You're awake," she says sleepily.

I can see her watching me in the darkness.

"Something bothering you?" she asks.

"No…too much coffee today probably. Just can’t seem to drift off." There’s my balloon again.

We lapse into silence. I stare at the ceiling. She resumes her sleep and I feel the moment slipping. “Sarah,” I whisper. She doesn’t answer and I say her name again, louder this time and she wakes with a muffled “What?” into the pillow.

"I've been thinking," I say. "Why don't we go away for a while. All of us I mean. Take the kids out of school for a few months. I take leave from work. Just drop everything and go. See where the four winds take us."

She doesn't say anything. I struggle on, looking for the right words.

"We could go travelling and rent out the house. That would almost take care of the mortgage. It’d be a chance for us to spend time together…to…to get away from it all.”

I'm sitting up on the bed now, looking down at her.

"So what do you think?"

She turns and stares up at me. In the darkness I can make out her expression. Equal parts bemusement and irritation. She reaches out and touches my cheek.

"Darling," she says, "sometimes you're so full of hot air."


*     *     *

Martin Cronin graduated from University College Dublin with a degree in English and Art History and postgraduate qualifications in education and in IT. He lives in Dublin and works in IT.

Terse, Cogent, Salient: Kevin Cadwallender

Swear

Not for the first time she muttered through tight-lipped pain, bastards.

Another red bill had dropped onto the ‘home sweet home’ bristle mat that curled at one edge and made opening the door irritating. Once again the bill was in her dead husband’s name, once again they had ignored her phone call, her letter, my phone call, my email.

Why can’t they stop reminding me he is gone?

It had been three years now since he had died.  In a drawer in the bureau with the peeling veneer lay the newspapers with those bold, gruesome headlines. The world had moved on, the papers she had not thought to stop, his papers with their un-attempted crosswords

were become a tottering tower in the cupboard under the stairs, unopened, unread, ready to be recycled.

Shall I put those in the recycling bin?

No, she had said plainly without explanation.

And now as I bag her clothes, her possessions and finally recycle those newspapers

I understand.  A single large tear drops, makes an asterisk that spreads as more join it.

A constellation of asterisks. I load up the car to make the final trip to the supermarket clothes bank, look for one last time at the nicotine haloes where souvenir plates used to hang. Close the door and lock the memories in.

The postman hands me a red bill as I leave.

It is in her name.

Bastards.

*     *     *

Kevin Cadwallender is a writer, editor, poet, artist and filmmaker. He is Red Squirrel Press Commissioning Editor for Scotland. Kevin has published many books of poetry, including ‘Dances with Vowels: New and Selected Poems’ (SmokestackBooks). His 'Voyages' BBC Radio 4 programme was shortlisted for a Sony Radio Award and he just happens to be the current Scottish Slam Champion 2012-13.

Carol McKay reviews A Man's Hands in the Indie e-book Review

"A Man’s Hands is a concept album of a short story collection. In writing thematically linked stories around different lead characters, [Crawford is] saying something about the universality of his subject – this all-consuming yearning for something lost in the past."

You can read Carol McKay's complete review here.

  

Call For Submissions - Terse, Cogent, Salient

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

Terse, Cogent, Salient

Here at Wee Fictions, we're looking for short stories (maximum 500 words) for our Terse, Cogent, Salient feature in February. There's no theme - the title says it all.

Submissions should be sent to andymccc01@gmail.com

Put the word out!

Chicken Soup

The path outside the station was a sheet of ice set at forty five degrees. A ski slope. Andy kept well into the side, planting his feet firmly in the flattened mounds of snow near the wall. He managed to get down to the road without breaking any bones. The area hadn’t changed, the detached houses were still affluent, although the college was further away than he remembered. The razor wire along the top of the fence was a surprise. He watched the padlock on the gate gleam larger as he approached. He’d been expecting the security to be tight, it was the Christmas holidays, but not like this, like a prison. There was a pillbox. A man in a dark blue bomber jacket stepped out of it. His head was shaved completely bald. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘I hope so,’ said Andy. ‘I used to be a student here. Years ago. I was hoping I could come in for a look around. You know, memory lane and all that.’

The guard examined him.

Andy was so close. Through the gate he could see street lamps in the driveway. A camera was fixed to each one.

‘Sorry,’ said the guard.

‘I’m a writer,’ said Andy. He wasn’t going to let it end like this, just as it was starting. ‘Google me. I’m doing research for a book. I’m sure you can keep an eye on me if you let me inside.’

The guard thought about it then asked for details. He went back into the pillbox and tapped his little computer. He murmured as he read the information on the screen. ‘Have you written all this stuff?’ he said.

‘Yes, I have,’ said Andy. ‘I’m not a criminal or anything.’

*   *   *

This excerpt from 'Chicken Soup' is taken from my new collection of short stories, A Man's Hands. You can read the story in its entirety here and here. There is also an extremely thoughtful review of the book on Jim Murdoch's blog, The Truth About Lies. 

A Man's Hands

"...Crawford just keeps improving, his short stories are chiselled to perfection..."

"...[the]  characters brood and despair as they wrestle with the dark places in the human psyche..."

"... These are spare, intelligent stories that don’t talk down to you; they demand you engage with them and complete them..."

Available on Amazon co uk and Amazon com.