Friday 30 September 2011

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

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

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.

Wednesday 28 September 2011

A Wee Guest Poem: Brian Hill

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.

Tuesday 27 September 2011

A Wee Guest Poem: Gordon Urquhart

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.

Monday 26 September 2011

A Wee Guest Poem: Ross Wilson

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.

Sunday 25 September 2011

A Wee Guest Fiction: Leela Soma

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.

Saturday 24 September 2011

A Wee Guest Fiction: Brendan Gisby

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.

Friday 23 September 2011

'Teeth' - published in New Linear Perspectives

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

Thursday 22 September 2011

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

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.

Monday 19 September 2011

The Next Stop Is Croy





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.

Tuesday 6 September 2011

from 'Gimlet'

...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.

Saturday 3 September 2011

A Wee Poem: The Watchmaker's Wife

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

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

The lesson isn't assessed.

Friday 2 September 2011

A Wee Poem: Archimedes' Principle

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.