A Man's Hands by Andrew McCallum Crawford

My story, A Man's Hands, which received an Honourable Mention in the 2012 Spilling Ink Review Flash Fiction Prize, has just been published in Spilling Ink Review issue 8. Excellent magazine published in Glasgow, featuring writers from all over the world. Do have a look.

#GreekCrisis‬ Τα τρία πιθανά σενάρια για την επόμενη ημέρα - υπάρχει λύση πουθενά; http://news.kathimerini.gr/4dcgi/_w_artic …

Greece - General Election, 17th June, 2012. It's time the Greeks got their heads out of the sand.

Greece's European partners have been circling the wagons for a few days now, so the shock at British Home Secretary Theresa May's racist pronouncement on curtailing immigration wasn't as great as it might have been. However, in the developing Greek crisis, it is clear that the only country without a contingency plan is Greece.

The causes of the current mess are many and various. There's a lot of talk about corrupt politicians and banks being out of control, but the Greeks also have to shoulder some of he blame. So much for how we came to this pass. The problem is what happens now? What's the next step?

It is interesting to note May's comment that there is no evidence of increased migration at present...but it is difficult to say how it is going to develop in the coming weeks. She is referring, of course, to the forthcoming Greek general election, the second in a month, scheduled for 17th June. The Greeks are in a dilemma. Should they vote for the old guard, for New Democracy and Pasok, whose MPs have filled their pockets over the last 25 years with European money, or take a chance on Alexis Tsipras and his anti-austerity party, Syriza?

New Democracy / Pasok are selling the lie that they can renegotiate the bailout agreement when they know very well that they can't. They will impose more austerity and more taxes. The point here is that the average Greek has got nothing more to give. Salaries in some sectors have been cut to €400 a month, with more cuts on the way.

In Greece, in May, 2012, there is no minimum wage.

But New Democracy / Pasok are telling voters to suck it up, that everything will be all right.

Clearly, it won't.

Syriza, meanwhile, are flying the proud Greek flag. They say, quite rightly, that Greeks have had enough. However, Tsipras wants to tear up the bailout agreement. He believes that even if he does this the country will stay in the Euro because it would cost the EU too much to show Greece the door. And this is now the mindset of many Greeks - 'they wouldn't dare kick us out'.

It is time the Greeks, whatever their political persuasion, got their heads out of the sand.

The EU is preparing to cut Greece loose, but no Greek politican - not one - has a contingency plan if this happens. They promise 'hope', when in fact all they do is shout each other down, daily, on television 'discussion' programmes.

The politicians in Athens bark at each other like rabid dogs as the wagons of their European partners circle even more tightly. They want the Greeks out. The UK is the first to announce publicly that they want them to stay out.

When They Found Her

You want to have seen it, the place was crawling with busies, dozens of them, white coats, cameras, the lot. They didn't waste any time. They took me through the back, to where they found her. One of them had a grip of me, my left arm. 'Look,' he goes. She was...I said something, I don't know what, a noise just. The shock, I couldn't...she was...and this big bastard of a Sergeant's staring at me, his eyes boring into me, as if it was my fault, as if I'd done something wrong.

Lignite - on Bolts of Silk

Many thanks to Juliet Wilson for posting my poem, Lignite, on Bolts of Silk.

Lignite by Andrew McCallum Crawford

Bar, Thessaloniki, 4.15am

I didn't come here for conversation. I came here for the noise, the smoke, the smell of perfume. I came here to think. Memories are the least of it. I came here to imagine I'm something I'm not. Clear?

Arthur's Seat

The ascent
to the summit
was steep.

Twice I offered you my hand
and twice you gripped my sleeve.

Falling
down those rocks
wasn't your only fear.

Greek Easter, 2012

There isn't much narrative in this video, but there sure are lots of bangers.

from South Shore Road

Elbow room, the lack of it; crammed into the corner of this bar. The atmosphere was raucous, but not rowdy. Not yet. That would come later. He was on non-alcoholic beer. It had nothing to do with his health. He'd been plastered every night since he got back. The house had been doing his head in. Too much silence, not even a radio to switch on, never mind a television. But there was something he had to do, and he wanted to be sober.

It was his old man's local. They used to come here whenever John was back. He glanced over at the seat in the corner. It was empty. He tried not to read too much into it. The space would be getting filled soon enough. He twisted round and looked at his watch. It would take half an hour to get to where he was going. More than enough time for another bottle of fizz.

He ordered a double whisky.

The man standing next to him nodded. 'I've been trying to place you since you walked in,' he said. 'Do you live in the town?'

'No,' said John. 'I'm just passing through. I grew up here, though.'

'Aye?' said the man. 'Where about?'

'Round the back of the shops,' said John.

Oh,' said the man. 'Bandit country. This place has gone to the dogs. I mind when...'

John paid for the whisky. He let the man talk. It was like listening to his father. Except it wasn't his father. His father knew how to tell a story, even if it was a gripe about how the good old days had turned into nowadays. Mind you, the guy had a point. The town, this part of it, was a dump. Fifteen-year-olds hanging out of windows drinking Buckie while their wee sisters tried to batter a new doorway in Wong's with a shopping trolley. Feral - you couldn't say anything. If you looked at them the wrong way you'd get your windows panned in then the police would be chapping your door asking what the hell you were playing at. He'd told his dad to move out years ago, but he'd been there too long. He was there till the end.

from Bang, You're Dead

I was almost finished packing. I laid my bag on the bed. The house was empty. The kids were at school, my wife was at work. So was Harry. Maria was in the kitchen, I could hear her footsteps through the ceiling.

She was standing at the sink, doing something with the syringes. The baby was in its cot, under the window, wrapped in a blanket. It was sleeping.

‘Maria,’ I said. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Oh?’ she said.

‘It’s about the baby,’ I said.

‘What about it?’ she said. She looked at the cot. The blanket didn’t move.

I took a deep breath and held it. The yard was silent. It was just the two of us. And the baby. The three of us. ‘Is it mine?’ I said.

Her eyes narrowed. She crossed the floor and clicked the door shut behind me. I don’t know why she did that. Then she resumed her position next to the drying board, leaning on it. There was a damp patch on her blouse, at the bottom of her left breast. She folded her arms. ‘Are you stupid?’ she said. ‘We agreed never to mention…’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but…’

‘What do you mean, is it yours?’ she said.

‘You know…’ I said.

Something was playing around the corners of her eyes. The beginnings of a smile. ‘But you’re…you can’t…how could it be yours?’ she said.

‘Yes, okay,’ I said, ‘but the dates…’

She laughed in my face. ‘It’s not yours,’ she said. ‘I only let you do it because you’re…’

The baby screamed in its sleep.